


run, run, run (to your grave)

by oh_no_oh_dear



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Injury, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Necks, Sam Wilson Birthday Bang 2019, Sam Wilson-centric, Smut, Suicide, implied breathplay, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: The intel? Sketchy. The trio? Exhausted. Hotel? Definitely not Trivago. Sam Wilson is on the hunt for the other Winter Soldiers, but somewhere between making tea and outmanoeuvring evil assassins, he finds time to fall in love. Sam Wilson is the ultimate multitasker.





	1. they're coming for your brain (but they will leave with your head)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey I posted to a Bang on time instead of 4 entire months late! Nice! MASSIVE thanks, love, kudos, respect to my collaborator [baggijaggi](https://baggijaggi.tumblr.com/) for her BROOTIFUL art. (Can you believe she did that by hand? WITH INKS??? We love a talented artist!)
> 
> So grateful for the encouragement from the mods of the SWBB, my wife, and the folks in the Sam Wilson discord! My PEOPLE.

“The green ones match your eyes,” Barnes said. Sam very carefully didn’t stiffen in surprise, but he did give the man a sideways glance.    
  
“You gotta stop fuckin sneakin’ up on me, man,” Sam sighed. He glanced back at the rack of heavy canvas jackets he’d been perusing idly, waiting for Steve to stop being overwhelmed by the vast selection of clothing, and to figure out what an  _ actual _ civilian disguise looked like. Where they were going, sunglasses and baseball caps weren’t gonna cut it.    
“And almost everything in this store is green–” Sam started, before seeing the small smirk Barnes had on his face. Oh, a joke. The man seemed to be making more and more of those lately. Sam found himself snickering at them more often than not. But not right now. Sam was too tense for much mirth.    
  
Barnes, at least, seemed pretty good on picking up emotional cues from people. Sam was mildly surprised by that, but maybe he shouldn’t’ve been. Just because the dude used to have the facial expression range of printer paper didn’t mean he wasn’t emotionally intelligent.    
  
Almost as if to prove him right, Barnes backed out of Sam’s space and Sam relaxed slightly.    
“You okay?” the question was pitched low, almost lost under the rock music playing from the store stereos. The music wasn’t too loud, though – a good choice, considering the usual clientele.    
  
Sam shrugged. He’d never liked going into Army surplus stores, for several reasons. Some stores played up the war aspect, selling a chance for (usually) grown men to play at being ersatz war heroes without ever having set foot near a recruiting desk, much less being deployed. Some stores were too quiet, the shuffle of the heavy boots favoured by some vets, the clinking and screech of metal hangers sliding along racks as quiet people with downcast eyes carefully looked through them. Some stores blared heavy rock, had skull logos everywhere, and sold heavy belt buckles and jewellery with symbols that made Sam’s skin crawl.    
  
No matter where he went – always with a client or friend, never for himself – he could smell it. No matter how well the garments were cleaned, he could smell the sweat. It made him light-headed. It smelled like Riley. On bad days, he could almost smell the overwhelming, almost heady scent of jet fuel–

“Sam?”   
  
“I’m ok. Just don’t like these stores too much.” Sam nodded at the olive greens, camouflage and dark earth tones spread before them in the massive store. Barnes shifted his shoulders uncomfortably and grunted in agreement.    
  
“Yeah. I don’t – it’s the goddamn smell,” Barnes muttered, almost as if to himself. Sam stared at him, and Barnes looked him right in the eyes for a good few long seconds. Huh.   
  


* * *

  
“I came across some decent finds in there,” Steve said later, after the three of them had taken separate routes back to their ‘safehouse,’ a.k.a. The World’s Shittiest Apartment. Sam raised an eyebrow as Steve pulled out a worn denim jacket, some t-shirts that might actually fit him without looking like they’d been vacuum-sealed on (which was disappointing), and some boots. They all had the smell. Sam felt Barnes shift next to him, but neither of them commented on it.    
  
“Took you 40 minutes to find an outfit we coulda scored at the Gap?” Sam asked, grinning to show he didn’t mean it. Now that they were far away from that store, he could feel himself relaxing a little. Just a little, though.    
  
“I might’ve been recognized at the Gap,” Steve chided.    
  
“All right there, Hollywood,” Bucky murmured. Sam snorted and Bucky smiled to himself, looking a little pleased (Sam didn’t know what to make of that, so he didn’t.) Steve, used to good-natured ribbing from the two of them by now, merely shook out, smoothed, and folded the paper bag his clothes had been in. He would add it to his little collection of paper bags in their hallway closet, next to their shoes. One of the little habits he maintained from his past – trying not to waste things that could be reused. It was a quirk, much like the ones they all had. Those were the kinds of things that they never teased each other about.   
  
Idly watching Steve tucking his shopping bag into the closet with the others, Sam tried not to think about the outfit hanging in his own closet. Less than 24 hours, and they would be leaving on a mission that could very much be their last. Steve kept a somewhat optimistic outlook (but Sam knew him well enough to know he was, as usual, a little too accepting of potentially dying as long as it was for the  _ greater good _ ); Bucky was calm in that repressed white-knuckle-fear kind of way; and Sam? Sam was developing a stress ulcer, he was sure of it.    
  
They were going after the other Winter Soldiers.    



	2. scream, cry, pray, confess

The three of them should have been used to getting up at ungodly hours, but there was only so much that military training could do to dispel one’s love of sleep. Specifically, Bucky’s. Although they were still on the run, he was the most likely to nod off at any time of day, assuming they were all there in the safehouse at once. It was as though he was making up for the years of relentless missions, his body operating beyond usual human capacity for hunger, for exhaustion, for injury. It wasn’t as though his handlers had cared, as long as he was functional enough to carry out their orders.  
  
So, he slept a lot, and he ate like a teenager going through a growth spurt.  
  
Sam slept okay. Usually. Well, sometimes. Maybe not so much lately. Definitely not this night. He’d been too busy running over their plans, the timing, and all the catastrophic ways they could go wrong. He probably should have been a little more hesitant to go haring after people who were _worse_ than the Winter Soldier that Barnes used to be, but Sam had never been one to shy away from danger. Especially if it meant hitting Hydra where it hurt.  
  
True to form, Sam fell into a heavy sleep a few hours before his 03:40 alarm went off, and he wished to god he could hurl the noisy phone out the window and roll back over to sleep. But no, they had the world to save.  
  
From across the hall, he heard the creak of Steve’s bedsprings as he swung himself out of bed, probably already raring to go. Sam couldn’t repress an unhappy groan when he sat up, his back screaming bloody murder. As if in answer, Bucky made similar ‘please god no I’m so tired’ noises from his place on the lumpy couch in the living room.  
  
**04:13.**  
  
The smell of burnt toast and acrid coffee was part of their breakfast routine by now, since Steve was usually the only one who was full of energy first thing in the morning. Sam took a good twenty or so minutes to get up to speed, and Bucky even longer if it wasn’t an emergency.  
  
Since Steve was trying not to look anxious, Sam thought he ought to comment on the cuisine. Steve had gone the extra mile and served them Eggo waffles which were only semi-burned, which was truly a miracle.  
  
“This is good,” Sam said into the companionable silence. Bucky made a sound that may or may not have been agreement, before returning to staring miserably at his cup of weak tea. He knew Steve was being thoughtful, but he missed his fucking coffee. So what if it wreaked absolute havoc on his nerves and stomach?  
  
Wilson – Sam – wasn’t looking in his direction, but he took a sip of his own coffee, and then did the weirdest thing. He put his mug down real close to Bucky’s plate, flicking his index finger in a ‘go ahead, while Steve’s distracted’ motion. Bucky took a sideways glance at Steve, who was grousing with Sam about the latest horrible news stories on Twitter (their favourite morning time activity). Sam’s coffee was too sweet, too milky. It was delicious.  
  
“Condensed milk,” Sam would tell him later when Bucky asked about it. “Little secret from the Caribbean, from me to you.”  
  
The coffee only made Bucky’s stomach rebel slightly, and he felt awake without feeling like he was on the verge of eating right through a wall. Sam had known exactly what he’d needed. Huh.  
  
**07:48.**  
  
Sam always touched the tip of his tongue to the little gap between his front teeth, when he was anxious or thinking hard about something. Steve’s gaze always lingered a little too long when that happened. There was something about the delicate way Sam’s lips parted and he tapped his tongue against his teeth – one, two, pause, then a third time. Ritualistic in nature. Steve wondered how long Sam had been doing that. Since childhood? It was such a small tell, but Sam was doing it right now and Steve didn’t have to guess twice at the reason.  
  
The patter of the shower going was faint in the background, but otherwise the apartment was almost oppressively quiet. There was something about knowing that you might never return to a place. It had been a home of sorts for them, no matter how much the floors creaked and gave you splinters, or how unsettling the creeping water stains on the walls and ceilings were.  
  
“You okay?” Steve asked, finally unable to stand the quiet any more. Sam sighed.  
  
“Yes and no.” The shower stopped running, and Sam glanced briefly towards the door separating them from Bucky. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Steve. “I know I brought this up before, but I still dunno about this source…”  
  
Steve grimaced. The _source_.  
  
It had been almost a week since Bucky had gotten a mysterious communication, a typed letter slid under their door (they’d fled that safehouse the same night.) The information was scant – a grainy black-and-white photo of a low, squat shape against a blinding field of white. A remote building half-buried under snow, Barnes would later tell them. Accompanying the photograph was a note, clearly composed on an old-fashioned typewriter. No fingerprints. No DNA. No hazardous materials, biological or chemical in origin. Just a note written in a language that Bucky had to translate for them (and even then, it took a little while):  
  
**_Your siblings miss you._**  
  
Sam had been out running errands that afternoon, prickling with the unease that came with being on the run while shuffling through the wide aisles of their nearest mega-mart. When he’d gotten back to the safe house, it was like a hurricane of pure adrenaline had whipped through the place. Steve was all but suited up, basically having only waited for Sam to return. Bucky had managed to talk his best friend down, but Sam’s return set things in motion again.  
  
Someone had found them. Someone knew who Bucky was. And, worst of all, they’d brought up Bucky’s so-called ‘siblings’ – a term that made him go blank and cold with anger and old fear.  
  
Sam and Steve talked in circles for almost 2 days, coming dangerously close to real arguments on more than one occasion. During that time, Bucky was packing. Checking and re-checking his weapon cache. Looking thoughtfully through the new (but carefully weathered) passport he’d had hastily made, just in case something like this ever happened. He’d always known it would.  
  
When he went to bed, he was careful. Casual, but not forced. Made sure to let just enough of his tension bleed through that he was believable, that he was a little overwhelmed and needing time to formulate a plan with the other two. When Bucky pretended to go to bed, shifting occasionally under the bedclothes and breathing with a slight rasp so that it didn’t sound unnaturally even, he’d been careful. Counting the minutes. The hours. He shuffled out of his bed around the usual time he went to the bathroom, coughing like he usually did in the dry indoor air caused by their damn radiator being up too high for his liking. So when he got up in the dead of night, the city breathless and so quiet you could almost hear the frost crinkling across their window, Bucky was a little nonplussed to find Sam and Steve sitting on the couch. Bucky looked at the flasks of coffee he could smell from where he was standing. And the fucking duffel bags. He’d really been hoping they wouldn’t be _this_ stupid.  
  
“You can’t come,” he said tiredly. Steve just made a big show of checking that his bag was properly zipped before getting to his feet. Sam didn’t move, merely raising an eyebrow in that way that made Bucky feel _weird_.  
  
“Didn’t know your name was Darlene Wilson,” Sam drawled. It was too early for his smart mouth, and Bucky stubbornly refused to play along, remaining silent. Undeterred, Sam continued, “And since my mama’s the only one who can tell me what to do, how ‘bout you stop the lone wolf shit and call us an Uber?”  
  
“It’s a trap,” Bucky countered. He was only mildly annoyed that neither of them reacted. Of course they knew. They all did.  
  
But it was the only lead they had, and none of them could sit around doing nothing.  
  
Steve only asked once, quietly, if Bucky knew where to go once they landed. Bucky nodded, lips pressed together in a thinner line than usual. He knew where it was. Of course he did.  


* * *

  
His right hand was shaking a little when Sam pressed the thermos cap, half filled with almost warm coffee, into it. Bucky barely had the presence of mind to nod a curt thanks to the man beside him, but he was grateful for the distraction. He knew they were knowingly walking into danger, but the problem was what kind? Would the others be there waiting for him? He would go down fighting before he’d let them touch a hair on either Sam or Steve’s head. Would the mysterious author of the note be there, waiting for him?  
  
Steve was trying to unobtrusively walk the perimeter of the lounge, doing a passable job of pretending he was merely stretching his legs while being engrossed in his phone screen. Sam was… Sam was fidgeting, doing that thing where he poked at his front teeth with his tongue. He’d been pretty quiet since learning their destination. Even as he did it he was unsure why, but he reached out and touched Sam’s shoulder. Sam started ever so slightly, as if he’d been lost in thought, but he smiled slightly at Bucky. Bucky left his hand there for a little while longer, even going so far as to give Sam’s shoulder a light squeeze.  
  
“They got any black people where we’re going?” Sam asked suddenly, trying to sound like he found the situation at least somewhat funny. Bucky didn’t know what to say to that. There certainly hadn’t been any non-white people living there when he was last there (and somewhat in control of his mind), decades ago. Sam’s smile turned more into a grimace when Bucky’s silence stretched on, and Bucky regretted not saying something to try to make him smile. He liked Wilson’s smile, small and quirked to one side, or big and sudden, showing off that gap between his teeth.   


* * *

  
Sam immediately fell asleep on the first flight, frowning slightly even in his sleep. Steve leaned in, his hair still rumpled from not having quite enough time to get spick and span before they went on a suicide mission in the middle of the night.  
  
“You gonna be okay, Buck?”  
  
“Probably not,” Bucky said. Steve nodded with a wry expression, attuned as always to the morbid sense of humour of his best friend.  
  
“Any idea what to expect?” Steve asked, slumping in his seat and peering out into the darkness like he expected to find a Winter Soldier perched on one of the plane wings. (Bucky actually wouldn’t have been surprised if that had happened before).  
  
“Not really. That’s what’s so dangerous.” Bucky caught a bleary-eyed teenager’s glance from across the aisle, and he lowered his voice even more. From here on out, they could only trust each other. He didn’t dwell too much on the fact that a few special words could make him the enemy, too. Fuck. He really should have given them the slip, but deep down inside he knew he’d need them.  
  
“I told you a little about the… others. Before. With the –” Bucky wiggled the fingers on his left hand, referencing their less-than-ideal reunion, when Steve and Sam had had to trap Bucky’s mechanical arm in a vise to assure their own safety. Bucky had fucking terrible luck with first impressions nowadays.  
  
Steve made a sound of assent to show he was listening, and Bucky continued.  
“I didn’t go into details. Still dunno if I should.”  
  
“I ain’t scared, Buck.” Steve did a remarkable impression of his younger, scrawnier self; he’d said that exact phrase too many times to count when they were kids, usually before proceeding to get his ass kicked something fierce. Bucky’s answering smile felt wan, and Steve sobered. It still wasn’t easy for either of them to talk about this part of his life. In a lot of ways, it was actually easier to talk to _Sam_ about it.  
  
“I know you’re not scared, _Steve_. That’s what’s probably gonna get you killed.” Bucky elbowed him lightly so show he was at least half-joking. Kinda.  
“You’re not scared, but they don’t feel fear. Those’re two different things. You can fight through pain. They _relish_ it. You can be kinda stubborn–”  
  
Steve opened his mouth and then thought better of it. Maybe he’d learned a few things during his tenure as Cap, after all.  
  
“– you’re stubborn, but the others are goddamn _cruel_. You get me? They like to hurt.” Hurt, torture, kill, and other things that he couldn’t even bring himself to think about right now.  
  
Sam stirred beside him and then groaned, rolling his neck from side to side to loosen the stiffness. Bucky glanced between him and Steve when he said the next sentence, his voice still barely above a whisper.  
  
“Things go south, don’t be a hero. They get the upper hand, we _run._”  


* * *

  
Sam shivered, regretful that he couldn’t wear as heavy a parka as he wanted because of the wings. His goggles were on, the dim red glow reflecting off the frost clinging to the glass. It was almost beautiful – or at least it would be if they weren’t standing there with stomachs sour from fear. As soon as Bucky had punched in the code on the grey metal panel embedded in the concrete wall, everything had gone to hell.  
  
Or rather, it hadn’t. Which was in itself worrying.  
  
The place was orderly and sparse, the few pieces of furniture in the laboratory utilitarian and battered with long years of use. Steve had insisted on taking the lead (of course,) using the logic that if he got shot he might be okay (unlike Sam), and if someone tried to use the trigger words on him he’d be fine (unlike Bucky.) It turned out there had been nothing to get all geared up for, though. The glass chambers, large tube-shaped enclosures with chairs from a nightmare hell-dentist and what looked like IV tubing stuffed inside, were open and there was no one inside. Each one was emitting a golden-yellow light, almost like the bastards had tried to replicate sunlight but had gone awry somewhere. It was the only source of light in the room, bouncing off gleaming metal and casting long shadows behind them as they moved around the massive space.   
  
Sam finished checking over the room with his goggles, which had been more of an excuse to give Barnes some space than anything else. He’d gone even weirder than usual, muttering to himself in a language Sam couldn’t place, pacing the room like a caged tiger, repeatedly reaching out to touch the icy glass of the containment chambers and pulling back at the last second as if burned. Steve was tapping away at one of the old, chunky laptops that had been left behind. He hadn’t found anything yet, not for lack of trying.  
  
Sam was starting to lose the feeling in his cheeks and toes from the cold, which meant it was past time to go. Still… they’d been led here for some reason, and if not to set the other Winter Soldiers on them, or capture Barnes, then what?  
  
“Fellas,” Steve said suddenly, the first time any of them had spoken in almost 20 minutes. Sam was too on edge to even make fun of Steve for saying ‘fellas’ as he moved closer to peer at the screen. It was a miracle the thing was still working at these temperatures.   
  


  
Steve had found a file hidden within a folder (hidden in a folder hidden in a folder hidden in a folder) and was looking like he wished for all the world like he hadn’t. _  
__  
_**_You should pay your sister a visit._**  
  
Underneath were all of their full names and aliases, addresses, and even the license plates of every car they’d rented in the last few years. There was no obvious reason for this addition, except for their little pen-pal to prove they had close tabs on the three of them. They were up shit creek together.  
  
“What the hell does this mean?” Steve muttered as he read and re-read the words. Bucky was quiet, but Sam saw a muscle in his jaw tighten. Sam knew the bitter cold was making him a little slow, but even so it was only a few moments before he figured it out.  
  
“We have to go after them,” Sam said. It wasn’t a question. It felt more like a death pact, actually.  


* * *

  
Bucky wasn’t a particularly noisy guy, but his absence was still felt when he slipped away in the grey of early morning. He’d left for the airport a few days earlier, the trio having chosen to separate for safety’s sake. Bucky was there to scout the place out and give the go-ahead; Steve was following another trail, intel gathered from Fury via Hill via Natasha. Just in case Bucky’s source was entirely full of shit.  
  
Their onetime safehouse hadn’t been fancy by any stretch, but it had been a kind of home. Now, though, it was cold and lifeless. Stripped of all their little personal touches – the ugly knick-knacks that Steve collected from gas stations, the tasteful books of photography mixed in with battered comic books that screamed _Sam_, the post-its stuck everywhere covered in Bucky’s cramped writing, his shorthand so bizarre that it was basically a language readable by him only.  
  
Sam was already mostly dressed, his shoes carefully shined, his crisply pressed khakis almost certainly wrinkled again from him sitting on the couch. His collared shirt, beige with tiny brown polka-dots, was unbuttoned at the top. His sweater – nice, soft, but nothing too distracting or expensive – was waiting draped over the back of the nearest folding chair. He was ready to play the part of a frazzled PhD student, down to the square-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide the intelligent glint in his midnight-dark eyes.  
  
Steve… might have been sneaking too many glances at his friend, who seemed blessedly unaware. A feeling not unlike mild panic threatened to grip him, screaming that Steve had to _tell Sam, _because they were going to be parting ways for who knew how long on missions that were certain to be life-threatening (if not life-ending.) _Say something._ But how could he dump the entirety of “I’m in love with you,” and everything it did and could mean, at Sam’s feet now? A few hours before they were due to board their flights? Better to keep that to himself, even if it made his guts roil.  
  
When Sam’s taxi came to whisk him off to the airport, Steve felt it rising in his throat like vomit, a charmless yet accurate metaphor for how much he wanted to tell Sam that he loved him, had loved him so long. It sat heavy on his chest as he shook Sam’s hand, as he watched Sam roll his eyes and pull him into a fierce hug, it writhed with agony when Sam whispered “Don’t you die on me, Cap,” and ducked into the waiting car.  
  
Steve had 3 hours before it was time for him to go to the airport (a different airport, a different flight, a different continent from Sam and Bucky). He spent most of it with his jaw clenched, as though the pressure could crush his unspoken words into nothingness.  
  
****


	3. tear, burn, soil the flesh

**8 months.  
**  
  
Sam nodded and refrained from smiling as he passed one of his neighbours in the dingy hallway. She was a very tiny and very old lady who seemed to hate the very air in front of her, and especially the air near Sam. It had taken him some time to figure out that smiling at strangers wasn’t the way things went here. It made people suspicious of you – _why are you smiling like a fool? What do you want from me?_ It was almost (_almost_) a relief that he didn’t have to move through the world wrapped in cashmere and a smile in order to not seem threatening to others. No, that need was taken from him because in this small city in the ass-end of Latovia, he’d be an outsider no matter how happy or grumpy he looked and acted.   
  
His neighbour gave him a perfunctory nod and a slightly less sour look than usual, before opening her door with an aggression that suggested a long-standing feud between the lock and her enormous ring of keys. It was an improvement over Sam’s first month in the building, when she had looked stunned, then furious, and then muttered something that Sam didn’t understand, but _understood_ nonetheless. She hadn’t been the only one to act outraged at his mere existence, but besides some nasty looks and maybe getting stiffed on the change sometimes when he went grocery shopping, it was… well, manageable. In that he _managed_ not to flip them off and tell them about their entire family tree. When he began to grasp the absolute basics of the language, he learned that peoples’ standoffishness had as much to do with him being American, as it did his skin colour. Which brought him precisely no comfort.  
  
Everyone didn’t shun him, luckily; he was fairly popular at school. Enrolling as a mature (shut up, Rogers) student at a nearby international university had been the only real way he could get away with being quite as foreign as he was. Cultural studies. Second year of grad studies. Sam knew his sister would be both amused and irritated that he’d used her cover story, but he knew enough details of her studies to be able to fake it.   
  
He still had to do a lot of reading about the various ways that the complicated politics of the region had influenced the art movement in the 1970s, though.   
  
Today was the last day of the small seminar’s presentations, and Sam was waiting for his new BFF. A winning smile, quick wit and willing to help anyone who needed it. Her name was Iilsa, although she’d gone by ‘Ewa’ before assuming her current cover. She’d carved out a nice little life for herself here, with an on-again, off-again boyfriend and a pink bicycle with a basket that she rode every day in the summer. She sometimes baked for the class, since the 3-hour morning sessions usually had them all a little droopy by midway. She’d befriended Sam immediately, seeming not at all put off by him being the only Black person in the class.   
  
It made his skin crawl. He’d seen her file. He knew exactly what she thought of people like him. He knew who she’d killed, and how. He knew that she was the one they turned to when it involved the most vulnerable – elderly statespeople or politicians, or a toddler that would eventually be in line for the throne ahead of someone that Hydra had deemed more suitable. She was so sweet, so beguiling. They never saw it coming, and no one knew what sudden illness had taken the old but spry, or how the poor child had wandered off onto a small frozen pond in the middle of the night.   
  
Sometimes, Sam swore he could see her facade slip for a second – a look not of hatred, but of mild disgust, like she’d found a silverfish on the edge of her bathtub. Sam wasn’t sure how well he schooled his own face during these rare moments, but if she caught his (very brief) acidic glare, she didn’t show any reaction to it.   
  
It would be the winter break soon, and although most of the international students (mostly from other European countries) were heading home to visit their families, Sam was staying behind. His excuse to his classmates was that his budget didn’t extend to flying all the way back to the US for such a short time. The truth was, of course, to get Iilsa alone so that Barnes could meet up with her, and – well. Whatever their little ‘family reunion’ entailed, that was their business. Sam couldn’t fucking wait to get out of this place.   
  
“Reggie,” Iilsa called now, jolting Sam from his thoughts. “I’m having an end-of-term get-together at mine. You’ll be there, yes?”  
  
Sam _hated_ that she’d decided on her own to shorten his name to ‘Reggie.’   
  
“‘Course I’ll be there,” he replied, winking. She grinned and then turned to extend the invitation to another classmate; when she turned back to Sam, he saw it. She wasn’t able to hide the loathing on her face in time, and when she saw Sam had noticed she pressed her fingers to her temple.   
  
“Ahh, such a headache from reading late last night,” she complained teasingly. “Will Kant never leave me in peace?”  
  
She was good, Sam had to give her that.   
  


* * *

  
“How’s Kris?” _(Any word from Steve?)_  
  
_ “Kris is fine. Busy with the new baby, you know how it is…”_ (Deep undercover. Still no contact.)  
  
“Better him than me,” Sam said, making sure to laugh heartily. For the benefit of anyone listening in, of course. Couldn’t be too careful.   
“Got any Christmas plans?” _(Are you in the city?)_  
  
_ “Fuck no, Reg. You know they’d rather die than give me time off at the office.”_ (I never left.)  
  
“I feel that.” Sam was laying inelegantly across his IKEA couch, the only halfway decent piece of furniture in the tiny apartment. Night had fallen some time ago, but he’d gotten into the habit of having minimal lighting in his house. Just in case someone was watching him, he wanted to make it at least a little more challenging.   
“I’m staying put too. Gonna miss my folks…” No secret meaning intended or needed there. He’d been more or less alone since spring, Steve off keeping an eye on another potential Winter Soldier, Bucky keeping his distance and ferreting out more information in the same city Sam was staked out in. Their nightly calls were the only contact they had, and that was just to exchange information hidden in the guise of mundane conversation. It didn’t stop Sam from looking forward to talking to Barnes, though. A fact that he was very good at not examining too closely, thank you very much.   
  
_ “Yeah, but at least you’ve got friends there, right?”_ (Any progress with Ewa?)  
  
“I guess you’re right. I’m actually going to a holiday party tomorrow night. Just with my classmates, but it’s somethin’ to do.” _(Close interaction with target. Stand by.)_  
  
Barnes paused a little too long in response to what had sounded like a pretty normal statement from Sam, but when he spoke again it sounded as easy-going as ever. Good.   
  
_ “You gonna bring your famous cupcakes?”_ (Make sure you’re armed.)  
  
“Fuck you think I am? Of course I’m gonna.” _(Fuck you think I am? Of course I’ll be armed.)_  
  
_ “Okay, okay… listen, I’m gonna head off now. Don’t have too much fun at your uhhhh… grad school holiday shindig.”_ (Keep her busy. Don’t engage until I get there.)   
  
“Fuck you, at least I get invited to parties.”  
  
_ “Jesus. You got me there.”_  
  
When Sam ended the call, he spent 14 minutes browsing his phone. Then, he stood up and turned on the kitchen light (**1**), pretending to look through the cabinets for a snack. He settled on munching some cashews while he waited for a non-suspicious amount of time to pass. 4 minutes. He flicked off the kitchen light, and then hummed loudly as he made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the light there (**2**), spent a reasonable amount of time examining the state of his beard (doing its best, but not terribly impressive), and started a podcast on his phone before brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face. The tinny voices coming from his phone speakers were the only thing breaking the silence, which was pathetic compared to his incredible sound system at his place in DC. God, he missed bass.   
  
Bathroom light off, bedroom light on (**3**). Pyjama bottoms. Turn down the phone volume. Practice mindfulness. At the beginning, it was an act – him sitting cross-legged on his too-soft mattress, eyes closed and head tilted to one side as though he was meditating. The truth had been to establish a pattern for anyone observing him, to create a false sense of vulnerability and normalcy. It had become a genuine source of comfort for him these last few months, though – he was able to tune out the podcast episode, acclimate himself to the creaks and thumps of his neighbours moving about. Calm his breathing. Feel for any changes in the air.   
  
After about 10 minutes of this, he stood and turned off the overhead light before flicking on his bedside lamp (**4**). Shit, he needed a way to do four more lights or else Barnes wouldn’t get the correct message. He faked forgetting to grab the chapstick out his bag, which necessitated briefly turning on the hallway light (**5**) and then the living room floor lamp (**6**), then a trip to the kitchen (**7**) to have a glass of water. Once back in his room, he settled in his bed and appeared to be scrolling mindlessly through his phone – but his mind was racing. How to signal the exact time? Each light flicked on meant 1 hour, and he was planning to show up at the party for 19:30. How the fuck does one turn on half a light? It was getting close to late for his supposed bedtime, though, so he had to move fast. Bedside lamp off. Using the flashlight on his phone, he made a show of trying to find his charger cord to plug his phone in. There. That would have to do. He had no other way of telling Barnes the time without potential messages being intercepted, so this would have to do.   
  
He really fucking hoped it would.   
  


* * *

  
What _does_ one wear to a life-or-death showdown, anyway? Sam thought briefly of wearing the FUCK HYDRA t-shirt his sister had made him a few years ago, but that would be silly, of course.   
  
Right?   
  
He went with a nice enough grey button up under a black cardigan and black jeans. Wearing dark colours helped to conceal the folding knife he had tucked in his boot, and the pistol strapped securely under his shirt. It would also hide blood pretty well, in case he had to make a hasty retreat while not drawing attention from civilians. He realized halfway down the icy walkway leading from his apartment building that he’d forgotten to make cupcakes. Ahh, well. She didn’t deserve cupcakes anyway.  
  
* * *   
  
Sam knew that she was too smart to have a trap be _too_ obvious, but he was still slightly surprised to see that most of the people from his cohort were already there, making awkward small talk and nibbling store-bought cookies and pastries while they waited for the booze to kick in. Iilsa had her hair piled on her head in a messy bun, having used several festive red and green hair sticks to keep it in place. The music wasn’t bad, something slinky and electronic with enough of a beat to be distinguishable as party music at its current low volume. Sam nodded his thanks when Iilsa took his heavy winter coat, but inwardly he was fighting to keep a calm facade. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater festooned in a bird pattern. Was she…? Sam’s mind was going a mile a minute. Was it a coincidence? Was she calling him out as the Falcon? Did she know?   
  
Her smile seemed to stretch just a little more when she saw Sam take in her apparel.   
  
_Fuck._   
  
This party was over before it even began.   
  
The next few minutes consisted of Sam doing a pretty exemplary job of getting the conversation flowing while smoothly avoiding drinking a drop of alcohol. He always had a drink in his hand, and would even raise the glass to his lips now and then – but he would always be interrupted by laughing, or responding to something one of the other partygoers had said. After about 5 more minutes of this, Sam was almost high off of adrenaline. Where the hell was Barnes? When was Iilsa going to make her move? There was no way she wasn’t going to try to take him out. But in a party with 6 other people present? Bold, even for her.   
  
5 more minutes, and he couldn’t wait anymore. He excused himself to the bathroom, where he immediately took his phone out to text Barnes.   
  
_S.W. [19:38] at teh party. music is good but super wite lol__  
__  
_Sam heard raised voices from the living room, but it was just a burst of laughter … which just reminded him that he only had a few moments before his bathroom trip would seem unusually long (not that peoples’ bathroom habits should be scrutinized, but it was what it was.) He anxiously watched the screen where the ‘. . .’ indicated Barnes was replying.  
  
_B. [19:40] Glad youre having fun__  
__B. [19:40] You went early though__  
__B. [19:41] Bad party form, Reg_  
  
Shit. Shit shit shit. Barnes hadn’t gotten Sam’s message, thinking he’d meant 20:00 instead of 19:30. Sam was on his own. Outside the bathroom door, the music suddenly got much louder and he heard a couple of people whoop in approval. Seemed like the booze had kicked in and the dancing had started, based on the sound of furniture being pushed to the side and muffled footfalls on the carpet. That would provide a nice distraction for him to seamlessly slip back into the party, at least. He needed to come up with a plan, fast, now that he knew his backup was delayed.   
  
It almost escaped him, at first. But Sam, always sensitive to those _smells_, the sweat and smoke and blood– Sam froze with his hand on the bathroom door. The metallic tang was just strong enough to reach him, to immediately put him on guard. The music kept playing, and there was another eruption of laughter from the others, but it sounded… familiar. In fact, it sounded exactly like the first burst of laughter from a minute or so ago. It was like hearing a stock sound used twice in too rapid a succession in a TV show.   
  
He couldn’t wait any more. He took out his knife and tucked it up his sleeve, in easy reach. Took a few deep breaths, already able to tell that the sickly, coppery smell was getting stronger. And he opened the door.   
  
“Ahh, Wilson,” Iilsa said, looking up from where she was kneeling on the floor. Sam had steeled himself, but he still – he didn’t let himself imagine –   
  
It was a massacre. Iilsa’s hair was unruly, damp with sweat and what Sam assumed was blood. Her hair sticks were gone, and the reason was as sickening as it was inevitable. Sam didn’t even react to her using his real name, because he was too busy rushing over to the nearest victim, a man who had been his writing buddy on more than one occasion. He was on his back, eyes glassy and his limp hand still curled by his neck, where he’d tried in vain to pull the wickedly sharp hair stick from his throat. Even though Sam knew it was useless, he felt for a pulse. He hadn’t been gone even 5 minutes, and he’d heard them laughing and talking for part of that–  
  
Hadn’t he?  
  
Had that been laughter? Had they been crying out in fear, or mirth?   
  
Iilsa wiped her hands on her slacks, not that it made a difference. Her fingers were a slick crimson, an ugly dark maroon staining her cuticles.   
  
Sam gave up on trying to help the man. He was gone. They were all gone, and he’d been obliviously texting in the bathroom when they were murdered.   
  
“Wilson,” Iilsa said again, as though continuing a conversation they’d been having, “I meant to tell you thanks, earlier. I’ve gotten tired of this so-called city in the middle of _fucking_ nowhere. You gave me an excuse to be reassigned.”  
  
“You didn’t have to kill them,” Sam said, straightening to face her. “It’s me you wanted, right? You could’ve let them go home. Taken me out clean.”   
  
“You? Why would Hydra want _you_?” Iilsa – no, Ewa, they could stop the charade now – spat.   
  
Sam chose to ignore the barb. For now.   
“Why kill them? Isn’t it more work for you to hide the bodies?”  
  
Ewa appeared to only be half-listening; she was retrieving her weapons from the corpses of her party guests and checking them over, as though worried that the gleaming metal could have been in any way damaged by their flesh.   
“They’d ask questions about where I’d gone,” she said after she was satisfied that her tools were in acceptable condition.   
“There was no reason for me to stay, in any event. I’ve already completed my mission.”  
  
Sam hoped that the tendency for Hydra operatives to monologue about everything extended even to their deadly Winter Soldiers, because if he could keep her talking and distracted long enough for Barnes to arrive . . .   
  
“What’s next? Been reassigned to go kill some other schoolkids?” Sam asked acidly. It maybe wasn’t the brightest idea to antagonize her, but a) she was Hydra, so fuck her, and b) Sam would never, ever, ever, ever pass on a chance to sass them while digging for intel.   
  
She _tsk_ed irritably while she took something out of her pockets – Sam’s hand twitched towards his other wrist, where his knife was tucked, warm from his body heat – but it was just a handful of what looked like rags. She began wrapping them methodically around her palms and fingers, much like one would do in preparation for sparring. She wasn’t just going to kill Sam. She was going to have fun, first. Barnes’ words from not so long ago came to him: _‘The others are goddamn _cruel_. You get me? They like to hurt.’_  
  
And Sam was just letting her get all good and limbered up, huh? _Get it together, Wilson._ He had to catch her off-guard.   
  
He hadn’t expected her to really fall for it when he’d moved as though checking on the vitals of another clearly-dead partygoer, but the way she lunged forward and lashed out at his arm with the speed of a viper was terrifying nonetheless. Barnes had made a comment about being the ‘runt’ of the Winter Soldiers once, and Sam had brushed it off as a poor attempt at an edgy joke. Now, though… Sam could see what he’d meant. There was a huge difference between the shell of a body acting on orders, and a mind and body completely in sync. Sam would probably die before Barnes even got here.   
  
Iilsa bobbed away from him, out of reach. Sam’s forearm screamed with pain from the deep puncture wound she’d just given him, but more worryingly, it _burned._   
  
“Poison?” Sam asked through grit teeth. Ewa smiled in a saccharine _I’ll-never-tell_ way that made Sam want to drop her into a volcano. He decided then and there that he was at least going to get a few minutes of asskicking in before he died of the poison, or venom, or toxin, or whatever it was.  
  
The look of excitement on her face when he feinted to the left and whirled to swipe at her with his knife was even more proof of what Barnes had said. She was _enjoying_ this. Sam already felt his skin prickling and getting hot, but he focused on trying to find an opening to disarm her. She didn’t even seem to be trying, and Sam was going to take advantage of that arrogance. Her sureness in her superiority over him in every way was going to be the fuel that Sam needed to hang on just a little – bit– more–   
  
His opportunity came when he went for his gun. She moved in, eager to skewer his hand with one of her deadly sticks with its needle-sharp point, and he slashed hard and fast with his knife. She grunted a little but didn’t move away even as blood seeped from her side… because Sam had dropped his gun and grabbed onto her weapon. She blinked, a little taken aback by his apparent stupidity. And that was the second mistake, because Sam used the momentum of her stabbing motion to angle the metal skewer right into her ankle.   
  
A moment’s pause, and then she _laughed._ Like one would be delighted by a toddler figuring out how to put a square block in a square hole. Even though she hobbled slightly, she caught Sam with a swift jab to the throat that had him rasping and doubling over from pure instinct.   
  
The first _phut_ of a silenced bullet came at the same time she stabbed at Sam’s shoulder. The second one came almost immediately after, jerking her body away from Sam so that he got a mere pinprick from the weapon instead of being run through. Pain and warmth still blossomed from the shallow wound, but Sam pushed that aside because Barnes was here, fire and fury, coming not from the front door but the bedroom (what? how?) and Ewa was no longer focused on Sam. She dove to the side, narrowly avoiding more gunfire; but when she stood, something strange happened. She stumbled, for the first time since Sam had started fighting her. Her eyes were strangely bright and she swayed very slightly, and that was all it took to tell Barnes she was compromised. They had a chance.   
  
“Wilson. Wilson. _Sam_,” Barnes was saying, low and urgent as he offered Sam his hand to help him straighten up. He didn’t bother to ask if Sam was all right, which was just as well. Sam could barely speak and didn’t want to waste time telling Barnes that he wasn’t doing so hot, thanks.   
  
“She’s… poisoned…” Sam grunted, his voice scraping from his throat. Barnes moved as though to touch Sam’s neck – a weirdly tender gesture – when he snapped back into focus and turned to Ewa. She’d taken the few seconds of their distraction to get out a gun, and was now aiming it calmly at Barnes’ face.   
  
“Is that little James?” she cooed, tilting her head. Barnes didn’t answer with anything but a stutter from his rifle that she somehow snaked past to get into his space, and then Sam was flying backwards, shoved hard by Barnes so that he wasn’t in striking distance of Ewa any more.   
  
The fight was a literal blur, partially because they were moving so fast, partially because Sam’s vision started to swim from whatever bullshit was pumping through him with every pulse of his heart. Ewa was mocking, a sickly sweet quality to her words even as she slipped into another language, which Barnes answered only with bullets and blows that seemed to do minimal damage when they managed to hit. He definitely got shot a few times, based on the way his movements were a fraction of a second slower every time Sam heard a shot go off.   
  
Suddenly, Ewa gasped. Barnes had hit her, hard, in the very knife wound that Sam had inflicted earlier and her body betrayed her by trying to fold around the pain, protect itself. Sam only remembered her look contort into contempt when she fell to the ground, her bad ankle kicked from under her by Barnes, when her eyes met his. He lost consciousness halfway through telling her in hoarse Latovian to go back to hell where she belonged. It had, unfortunately, been one of the first things he’d learned in the local dialect upon moving to the city**.**  
  


* * *

  
Sam was _cold._ He tried to snuggle under his blanket, but the throb of pain from his arm told him in no uncertain terms to cut that shit right out.   
  
_ “... and further reports show that the fire, luckily – or perhaps _mysteriously – _contained to the sole apartment did in fact have occupants. The extent of the damage has made it difficult to tell how many people were present, but police estimate that it could be as many as 7–”_  
  
The TV volume was low, but the reporter was speaking in English and that was enough to make Sam struggle to wake up a little more so he could hear. He must have made a sound, because the door opened and the light flooding into his dark room was enough to make his eyes water. The person who had opened the door saw Sam flinch at the brightness and closed the door behind them, murmuring an apology. Sam relaxed a little. Barnes. They weren’t dead, somehow. Although the pain from his injured arm, his bruised throat, and even the little jab he’d gotten on his back were enough to make him _feel_ half-dead.   
  
“You’re awake,” Barnes said, moving closer and flicking on the bedside lamp so that the room wasn't quite as dark anymore. Sam angled his head upwards to look at Barnes with some difficulty, since his throat felt raw every time he moved or swallowed. Barnes looked like _shit_. He had a black eye, still livid and dark on his pale skin, and he moved like he was favouring one side over the other; probably one or more of his bullet wounds still healing. Sam was sure he didn't look much better, but he was just happy that they were both somewhat in one piece.   
  
He tried to say as much, but a sharp pain from his throat just reduced it to a hoarse grunt. Barnes held up a small glass (it had a pattern of tiny strawberries on it, which was strangely endearing) with ice cubes clinking softly inside. He moved closer to help Sam sit up slowly, trying not to move the bandaged arm too much; but Sam was trying to rush because his lips were cracked and aching, his throat craving the cold relief that those ice cubes would bring.   
  
Before Sam could reach for the glass (as if he could move his dominant arm much as all), Barnes stuck his metal hand into the damn glass and picked up an ice cube. It was only when it was close enough to Sam’s mouth that he could feel the cold radiating off it that Sam realized what he was trying to do. Sure, he and Barnes had become closer since running off on this search-and-destroy mission, but…   
  
Sam raised his eyebrows, darting a meaningful glance at the ice held almost delicately between Barnes’ fingers.   
  
“I washed my hands. You ask every time.”  
  
_Every time? Had they done this before? _Sam frowned a little. He’d clearly been out of it for a day or two, but … yeah. Yeah, he and Barnes had done this whole song and dance multiple times. His throat had been too raw to swallow properly, so the ice cubes had been the solution. And his arm was out of commission; that along with his overall physical state (hint: really fuckin’ bad) meant…   
  
Barnes had been feeding him ice every few hours to keep him hydrated. Oh. _Oh._   
  
Sam decided not to overthink it as he nodded his acquiescence. He sucked in a sharp breath from the coldness of the ice against his feverishly warm lips and Barnes paused, unsure.   
  
“I'm okay,” Sam rasped, screwing up his face when his throat painfully clenched.   
  
Barnes pursed his lips in a way that reminded Sam a little of an annoyed mother. In fact, it was kind of similar to the look _Sam_ wore sometimes when Barnes or Steve would come hobbling into the safe house, trailing blood and looking sheepish.   
  
“Don’t fuckin’ talk, Wilson. I know you love the sound of your own voice–”   
  
“Do I look like my name’s Steve Rogers?” Sam managed. The snort of surprised laughter that Barnes couldn’t hold back was worth the literal pain in Sam’s neck, and the weird tension that had been between them eased a little. If Barnes seemed to watch Sam’s mouth as he parted his lips to receive the ice cube, well. He was probably just making sure Sam didn’t choke.   
  
Sam definitely didn’t mean to make a soft moaning sound, though. The ice was helping to soothe his aching throat, and sometimes when you’re really happy you make weird sounds, okay? Why was Barnes looking at him like that? Why was his mouth slightly open? _Why was Sam even noticing this shit?_  
  
Barnes cleared his throat. Looked at the floor, then his own hand, then at Sam.   
“Uh. So I got some good news, and some bad news.”  
  
“Bahh newsth furthst,” Sam said, speaking sloppily around the ice in his mouth. Barnes made a disgusted face, which. Fair enough.   
  
“Any evidence of what the hell Ewa’s mission was wasn’t in her apartment.”  
  
“_Schit_.”  
  
“You’re tellin’ me.” Barnes sighed and it was only then that Sam could see that he’d been making an effort to seem less exhausted than he really was.  
  
“Gheh a schair, mahh.”   
  
Barnes made another face at Sam, trying and failing to hide his little smile, before heeding his advice and pulling over a chair. This was more like it. Them harmlessly needling at each other. The three of them had been apart so long, Sam had almost missed this.  
  
After sitting, groaning like the old man he was and wasn’t, and sighing yet again, Barnes continued.   
  
“Before I get to the good news, there’s some… let’s call it ‘neutral’ news.”  
  
Sam _mmhmm?_ed, waiting for Barnes to get to the point. It wasn’t like him to hem and haw this much.   
  
“We got another letter.”  
  
“Fruh who?”  
  
“The informant. Or whoever they are. I dunno. Here– I have–” Barnes pulled crumpled paper from his pocket and seemed to take an inordinately long time smoothing it out. Maybe he was embarrassed about crushing it up in the first place.   
  
_Well done. A family reunion awaits you in your birthplace._  
  
“Thisch wheh–” Sam paused irritably and made quick work of chewing up the small nub of ice that remained. “Sorry.”  
  
“No you’re not,” Barnes muttered, giving Sam the faintest of smiles.   
  
“_Anyway_. I was asking if this is where the next…” Sam gestured vaguely, not wanting to say _next Winter Soldier_ to the man that was one for so many years.   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Your birthplace. They mean…”  
  
“The good ol' U-S-of-A.”  
  
“Shit. Okay. When we leavin’? If you can wait a couple days for my arm to heal up a little…”  
  
It was like the breath had been knocked out of Barnes. He mouthed silently for a few seconds while Sam was busy poking at his wound dressing (Barnes had done pretty well, clearly keeping it clean and the bandages changed. Could use a little work on his neatness, but not everyone could be Sam Wilson.)  
  
“You nearly _died._” Barnes said it quietly, not with gentle awe but in a helpless _how-are-you-so-stupid_ way. Sam looked up from his arm and scowled slightly.   
  
“Part of the job description of –” _Avenger? Not anymore, not until the Accords got sorted. Or better, nixed. Hero? That sounded cocky. Vigilante? Nope, nope nope nope._   
“– whatever the hell it is we do,” Sam finally finished.   
  
“You nearly bled out,” Barnes said more clearly. He looked at Sam’s bandaged arm, at the bruising like faded ink smudges marring Sam’s brown skin. His fingers twitched toward Sam for a minute like he wanted to touch, but he stilled. Took a breath.   
“You were _poisoned_, Sam.”  
  
“I know that, Barnes. I’m the one that got stabbed,” Sam joked. Barnes didn’t laugh. In fact, he looked… well, the only word that really came to mind was ‘crestfallen,’ like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d let Sam down.  
  
“I thought you were– I hadta find– I had to find the antidote. I didn’t know for sure that she’d even have one, and your vitals were for shit.”  
  
Sam didn’t even ask why Barnes was unsure about Ewa having an antidote. She was confident to the point of reckless arrogance, believing wholeheartedly in her ability to avoid being dosed with her own medicine. Luckily, she’d underestimated Sam. One of the only times racism worked in his favour, he supposed.   
  
“Okay, point taken. I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t think I was a goner, Barnes… so… shit, I didn’t say it yet, huh?” His mama would have had a few choice words about Sam being ‘ungrateful.’   
“Thanks, man. Seriously. You saved my ass.” Sam swallowed painfully, having probably pushed his luck by talking so much with his sore throat.   
  
Barnes shrugged as if to say _It’s what we do_. And it was. They were constantly watching each others’ backs, especially over the last few years. Seemed they could only trust themselves lately.   
  
“And the good news?” Sam asked around a massive yawn. Barnes looked lost for a moment before seeming to remember that he’d only told Sam the ‘bad’ and ‘neutral’ news.   
  
“Well, I was gonna say that I could handle the next one on my own while you healed up, but…”  
  
“You know I’m gonna tell you to fuck off.”  
  
“I do _now_,” Barnes said dryly. Sam gave him an exhausted nod.   
  
Even the few minutes of talking had been enough to sap Sam of his energy, and Barnes seemed to catch that right away. He ducked out of the room briefly, returning with a small cup of applesauce, some room-temperature cream of wheat, and more ice cubes. It was exactly what Sam needed. Barnes kept him company while he slowly made his way through the meal, seemingly content to just stare outside at the occasional flecks of snow flashing past the window. The silence wasn’t even weird. It should have been weird. Why wasn’t it weird?  
  
Sam was dangerously close to nodding off when he heard Barnes moving around. The bowl and spoon were gently taken from his fingers, and he could have sworn Barnes was _humming_, low and very quiet. Sam was all too happy to accept some help laying back down, his eyelids already 3/4ths closed before Barnes even straightened back up. Sam felt a little verklempt, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t every day that he felt doted on – and yeah, he’d nearly died and all that, but still.   
  
“Hey,” he said hoarsely. Barnes made a vague ‘I’m listening’ sound, and Sam found himself smiling even as he drifted off.   
“Thanks, Barnes.”  
  
Sam barely registered the sound of Barnes moving closer, but he heard him mutter _It’s been 2 years, think you can start callin’ me ‘Bucky’ now_.   
  
Sam could’ve said there was no way in hell he was calling a grown-ass man _Bucky_. He could’ve said a lot of things that would have made Barnes laugh and flip him off.   
  
What happened instead was Sam sleepily sighing “Bucky…” and finally sinking into some much-needed rest. What happened was Barnes– Bucky – watching as Sam went relaxed. What happened was Bucky looking at the way Sam’s lips parted slightly. And his eyelashes, curled and dark where they just barely brushed his skin. What happened instead was a look of _want_ flashing across his face, quickly replaced by measured blankness. When he closed the door, he let his fingertips drag featherlight across the handle, thinking. Wanting. Sam slept. Bucky watched TV, made some chicken soup so that it could cool down to a manageable temperature for Sam. And he ached with _want._   
  


* * *

  
Bucky should have known that someone Steve’d liked off the bat would be fucking stubborn. He was both unsurprised and unimpressed to hear Sam slowly shuffling out of his room the very next morning, as though he hadn’t been burning with fever and shaking with chills just half a day ago. God damn it, why did he always end up running around after daredevils?   
  
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he said aloud when Sam emerged from the dingy hallway, squinting even in the low lights in what passed for a living room (a table, a couch that had seen better decades, and a surprisingly nice flatscreen TV.)   
  
“Mornin’ to you too, _Bucky_,” Sam shot back, although the sarcasm was a little ruined by his voice cracking from disuse.   
  
“It’s okay, Sam. Puberty is nothing to be embarrassed about.” Bucky couldn’t help himself, knowing that one of the easiest ways to get a smile out of Sam was to sass him (within reason.)  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam asked, but his face said he knew. He sounded like a teenager going through a voice change, all over again. God, hadn’t once been enough? And Barnes – _Bucky_ – was fucking laughing at him, with that little grin like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It _was_ funny, though.   
“Fuck you, Bucky Barnes. My _windpipe_ got _obliterated_,” Sam sniffed.   
  
“Aw, _bubelah_. A little thing like that?” Bucky couldn’t help but smile, because Sam was doing a terrible job of pretending to be outraged. He was also in a very bulky house robe and was wearing those socks with the little yellow chicks on it. The fact that Bucky had made sure that the only socks near Sam’s bed all had birds on them was moot. He got bored, okay? The point was that Sam Wilson, the mighty Falcon, was wrinkling his nose at Bucky and snuggling down further into the plush robe.  
  
“Want some breakfast?” Sam was asking now, gingerly opening the cupboards with his uninjured arm. Bucky was at his side in an instant, swiftly putting a hand on the next cupboard door Sam had been reaching for.   
“What?”  
  
“What do you mean, _what._ Siddown before you pass out, I’ll make somethin’. Jesus, Wilson.”  
  
“I’m not gonna pass out, man.”  
  
“You’re as fuckin’ stubborn as Rogers.”  
  
“I’m not,” Sam insisted. He sat on the lone stool beside the kitchen counter because he wanted to, not because he was shaky from recovery. Nope. He fidgeted with his robe a little, idly watching Bucky frown at the contents of their cupboard. Mentioning Steve felt almost like a tender bruise both of them were avoiding pressing on. They’d not heard much from him besides the once-monthly, single word message they’d receive. _Swell_, his way of saying he was safe and hadn’t been found out. They dared not communicate more than that at such a long distance, because of the three of them, Steve was the most likely to be heavily surveilled. His fame as a superhero preceded him of course, but he also fucking sucked at being undercover. So far, he’d apparently managed to pull it off, though. Sam tried not to feel too guilty about the fact that he wasn’t there as backup, even though the teamup had been Steve’s damn idea in the first place.   
  
Sam sighed and came out of his musings to find Bucky watching him. He never really knew what to do with the way the man quietly took him in, as if filing something away for later. Like he was trying to figure Sam out.  
  
“I miss him too,” he said suddenly. Sam thought of pretending he didn’t know what Bucky was talking about, but after a pause he just nodded slowly. They hadn’t yet gotten Steve’s monthly message letting them know that he was okay, but it wasn’t unusual for the messages to be a few days late or early. It didn’t make them any less anxious.   
“Sent him a message, though. Told him you got taken out–”  
  
“You told him _what?!_”  
  
“–of commission,” Bucky finished mildly. “Sometimes you’ve gotta let a guy finish talkin’, Sam. Thought you were some kinda counsellor?”   
  


“I’m not _your_ counsellor, Bucky Barnes,” Sam sniffed. Bucky really liked the way he’d started saying his full name like a mild admonishment. He really liked that Sam was using his name at all, actually.   
  
“Fair,” Bucky allowed.   
  
Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, then worried. He really had an expressive face, which was impressive considering he’d turned out to be a less-than-terrible spy.   
“So… you told Steve I got injured,” he said slowly.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“_Why_? He’s gonna be distracted during his mission, you know how he is.”  
  
Bucky leaned against the stove, giving Sam a look that could only be called ‘resigned fondness.’ Sam knew this look because he’d practically invented it, and he didn’t know how he felt about having it trained on him. A little warm in the face, to start with.   
  
“Yeah, I know how he is. What you think would happen if he found out you were hurt and no one told him?”  
  
Sam pulled a pained face in response.   
  
“Exactly,” Bucky nodded. His face sombered a little and he added, “Steve cares about you, Sam. He’s gonna want to protect you, and _no_, before you go getting mad, it ain’t because he thinks you can’t take care of yourself.”  
  
“... I wasn’t getting mad,” Sam mumbled, hastily smoothing away a frown.   
  
“He’s gonna want to look after you – because… well. Shit, he oughta tell you himself, I’m not gonna do it for him...” and then Bucky said something that sounded like “_fuckin’ punk_,” but Sam was too busy mentally reeling to react to that. If Barnes meant what Sam _thought_ he meant, then he had a lot of recalibrating to do. A lot of long shared looks to reassess, a lot of lingering shoulder touches and late-night calls to look at in a different light. A smouldering fire, covered by dirt and _of course he smiles a lot at you, we’re friends_ and ignoring the flutter that he knew meant something he could never had had. Or that he’d _thought_ he couldn’t have. If he and Steve had been stumbling around each other with feelings bundled up like a live coal held in a bare hand, they were both _idiots._   
  
Bucky was watching him, quiet again. Sam appreciated the easy way that he could slip into silence, not out of a lack of things to say but because he knew that the other person might need it then.   
  
“So, what, Steve’s got some kind of crush on me?” Sam asked with a false lightheartedness that fooled exactly no one.   
  
“Think he’s more than a little sweet on you, Wilson.”   
  
Sam looked at his hands. Bucky didn’t think he realized he was tapping his tongue against his front teeth, but something about the small gesture made him feel fiercely tender. With every word confirming that yes, Steve Rogers was a moron, yes, he liked – no, _loved_ – Sam Wilson, and yes, he’d been suffering in silence for years for the good of their friendship… with every word, he’d felt himself building a barrier of sorts. Because now that he saw Sam’s face… well, how could he say anything for himself? How could he berate Steve for not breathing a word, when Bucky had done the same to Sam? And how the fuck could he say anything _now_, after all but confessing on behalf of his best friend?   
  
“I have a headache,” Sam announced, breaking the pensive silence.   
  
Bucky couldn’t help himself. “That happens sometimes if you’re not used to thinking, I’ve heard.”  
  
“Fuck you, Bucky Barnes.” Sam smiled at him and the tightness in Bucky’s chest eased slightly. He could do this. He could be happy for Sam and Steve, even if he felt like the air was being sucked out of the room little by little.   
  
“Yeah, yeah. You want breakfast?”  
  
“Your cooking is a million times better than Steve’s, so _hell _yes,” Sam grinned. The casual compliment lit Bucky up inside, made him tuck the warm feeling away for later.   
  
Peppermint tea, with the teabag left in until it was almost bitter, a half teaspoon of brown sugar. Sam was impressed; it was exactly how he liked it. There was something almost unbearably intimate about someone knowing your food quirks. Like how Bucky always ate his greens last, as if it was a life-or-death chore. God _damn_ it. This was such a mess.  
  
“Barnes– Bucky.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“This thing with Steve…”  
  
Bucky steeled himself. He could do this too, be Sam’s confidante if he needed it. Somehow he knew that Sam _and_ Steve would do the same for him, because they were all emotional masochists, apparently.   
  
“The timing fuckin’ sucks, man.” This came out muffled, because Sam’s face was now in his hands. Bucky wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he stayed quiet.   
“I’m not gonna look at you when I say this,” Sam continued. “I know it’s not the adult way to do this, but I’m gonna give myself this one.”  
  
“What?” Bucky asked, truly baffled now. Sam groaned loudly, which seemed to hurt his throat because he hiccoughed a few times.   
  
“I was gonna tell _you_.”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
“I’m getting to it, Bucky. Jesus. Rushin’ me.”  
  
“You stopped like you were done talking,” Bucky groused. He wasn’t sure why Sam was suddenly so reticent to even look at him. (A tiny part of him, the part that refused to be logical, _hoped._)  
  
“I was gonna tell you.” Sam paused for a long time, but Bucky stayed silent this time.   
“I was gonna tell you that I think I gotta thing for _you_,” Sam said slowly. He finally moved his hands from his face, but his eye contact with Bucky was fleeting.   
  
The smell of burning eggs reached Bucky’s nostrils, but he still didn’t move. He couldn’t have heard that right. Sam couldn’t have told Bucky that his aching _want_ could be fulfilled. He must have misheard.   
  
“No pressure,” Sam said. His eyes were looking anywhere but at Bucky now. “I just wanted to be honest, and… I dunno, man. You got under my skin.”  
  
The smoke alarm beeped shrilly, and they both jumped. Sam made to move, but Bucky got to the smoking frying pan first and busied himself with moving it off the heat and covering it with a lid. Sam, meanwhile, had grabbed a kitchen towel and was doing his best to fan at the smoke without jolting his bad arm too much.   
  
As confessions went, the whole thing had been a trainwreck. And yet… Bucky’s very blood felt like it was singing. He could touch. He could feel his warm and make him smile. He could feel his heartbeat under his fingers and brush his lips across Sam’s. He could be with Sam.  
  
Could he?  
  
It was only after they gave up on cheese omelettes for peanut butter toast, after Bucky made them new mugs of tea, after the smell of smoke wasn’t as overwhelming because they’d managed to wrench open one of their living room windows to let in fresh yet frigid air. Only then did Bucky say anything.   
  
“What about Steve?”  
  
Sam nodded slightly, as if he’d been expecting the question.   
“That’s why I said the timing sucks. It’s… I got a lot of stuff that I’m still coming to terms with, for Steve. I gotta… I didn’t know he felt the same, and we could’ve been.... I dunno.”  
  
Bucky made a soft noise that Sam interpreted as him mulling it over.  
“You got a thing for him too.” It wasn’t a question.  
  
“I meant it when I said there was no pressure, Bucky. I just wanted to tell the truth.” Sam wasn’t trying to force him to make eye contact, which Bucky really appreciated. It could be hard for him sometimes, especially during intense moments like this.   
  
Intense because of how much he wanted to reach out and _touch_. How unsure he was that he could. Or should.   
  
“I can go.” Sam’s voice was soft, carefully devoid of sadness.   
  
“What? Why?” If Bucky sounded a little frantic, well.   
  
“If I made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t– that’s a lot to put on you, man. We’re always holed up together, and… shit, now I know why Steve didn’t say anything for years.” He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. Bucky raised his hand, then put it back down on the table. Then, again.   
  
“I’m. Sam, I didn’t know I could.”  
  
Sam waited.   
  
“I want to. I didn’t know I could. And Steve–”  
  
“Steve doesn’t have a claim on me,” Sam said firmly. “No one does. That’s not how this works.”  
  
“No,” Bucky said quickly. That hadn’t been what he’d meant at all. “I just. If you wanted…” _Me._ “If you wanted this, I didn’t want you to. Not try. With Steve, I mean. If that’s what you wanted.”  
  
Sam was frowning, which was fair enough. That had been a fucking disaster of a sentence.   
  
“You want to…?” Sam finally asked, his voice unsure. It pained Bucky to hear it, when he himself was so damn certain.   
  
“Yes,” Bucky said without hesitation. Go to town, go in a Lincoln, right?   
  
“Because I’ll understand if– oh. _Oh._” Sam blinked a few times and then smiled, a small, shy, impossibly pleased thing. Before he’d let himself bask, though, Sam insisted that they confirm that yes: he still had feelings for Steve and that was okay with Bucky; yes: Bucky still wanted Sam to talk with Steve; yes: in a perfect world the three of them could work something out; _yes_: he was damn sure, Sam, no, he wasn’t pressured, _no, Sam_, he didn’t feel manipulated, what the _fuck_.  
  
* * *   
  
“Can I–?” Bucky was leaning against Sam as they sat on their couch, sipping yet more tea. Or, Sam was; Bucky opted for coffee. He’d insisted on heaping honey in Sam’s drink, because all the talking had made Sam’s voice hoarse (and it was a mark of how much he liked Sam that he didn’t flee from talking about emotions and negotiating relationships for almost _2 hours_). Sam was half paying attention to the morning weather report on TV, but he seemed more than content to leech off Bucky’s body heat and check his Twitter feed.   
  
Now, though, Sam put down his mug and turned to look at him. Bucky’s brow was furrowed, which wasn’t unusual, but there was something about his eyes. His whole expression was painfully open, unsure and ready to retreat at any second. Sam’s tea could wait.   
  
“Can you what?” Sam asked. Bucky frowned harder, seeming to rethink what he was going to say. Sam suddenly found that he really, really wanted to know.   
“Go ahead, Bucky.”   
  
“Does it hurt?” Bucky asked, his voice pitched low like someone might be listening. Sam wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but Bucky gestured slightly to Sam’s neck, and   
  
_Sam remembered how his fingers had twitched toward Sam for a minute like he wanted to touch, but he’d stopped._ He had been half asleep then, but now he knew. He wanted Bucky to touch.   
  
“A little,” Sam murmured truthfully, tilting his head so that Bucky could see the splotchy bruised skin.   
  
“It looks bad.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“No, I mean. Sam, I was supposed to be there _thirty goddamn minutes earlier_ and you nearly–”  
  
“But I didn’t,” Sam said, cutting him off. “Listen, you made a mistake, and then you saved my life. I’d say we’re even.”  
  
“Your life wouldn’t need saving if…” Bucky was so close now, Sam could feel the man’s body heat through his robe and could see how he was intently searching Sam’s face for any sign to back off.   
  
“Yeah, well. Nobody made me get into all this superhero shit anyway.”  
  
Bucky made a low sound, whether of disagreement or desire or just being overwhelmed by them being in each other’s space like this, Sam didn’t know.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“I know. I’m okay. I know you got me.”  
  
“If you get hurt again–”  
  
“You’ll be there again.” Sam sounded matter-of-fact, even though Bucky could see how his irises, deep and dark like the perfect stillness of dusk, were almost all black with arousal now. His lower lip had two tiny freckles, and when he parted his lips to tap his tongue on his teeth – that fucking strange habit he had – Bucky exhaled hard and all but melted against him. They kissed like it was the thousandth time instead of the first, Sam immediately pressing his fingers firmly into the muscles of Bucky’s back. _I got you. You got me._ He didn’t know when this had become an absolute fact. Maybe somewhere in the artificial darkness of an overnight flight when Bucky made sure not to move too much because Sam had fallen asleep against his shoulder. Maybe it was the time Sam had tossed Bucky’s favourite cheap candy bar in his duffle after he’d made a Walmart run.   
  
Sam nodded when Bucky asked again, soft and so unsure. So utterly unlike he’d been 10 minutes before, and Sam decided to worry about the ramifications of this later, because Bucky was hesitantly brushing his cool metal fingers over Sam’s throat and it felt so… so much. Too much. Not physical pain, but the sudden vulnerability between them and how much more there was. Sam’s eyelids fluttered a little. Bucky’s was still saying sorry, still trying to soothe Sam with his touch. It was a promise. Never again. He’d never let Sam get hurt again.   
  


* * *

  
The sex was damn near perfect, full of soft sighs and drawn-out moans, of sudden crying out from how fucking _good_ it felt, with gentle hands tracing heated skin, strong fingers sliding possessively over hips, sweet little kisses and kisses so intense that it almost hurt–   
  
At least, that’s what was happening on the porn they’d put on to try to set the mood. Sam and Bucky, however, weren’t faring as well. Because this wasn’t a goddamn movie, and the first time ain’t always that great.   
  
It turned out that Sam I-Do-What-He-Does-Just-Slower Wilson should have gone slower this time, too. Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands and looking like he was seriously considering going back into cryo after all, because _what was that_? He’d been nervous – and then he couldn’t get it up, and Sam was so fucking sweet about it and yeah, he knew it wasn’t anything to be ashamed about, but hearing it helped. They’d kissed a while, trying to go slow and easy, and Bucky had been able to get back into it – but then Sam had _frowned_ like it felt weird, and Bucky’d gone soft again because what if it hurt, what if it felt bad, what if Sam didn’t like it, oh _fuck_, what if Sam hadn’t liked it–   
  
“I can hear you thinking,” Sam said quietly. Bucky hadn’t noticed that Sam had paused the video, since he’d been busy. Y’know. Feeling like shit.   
  
“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled. Sam sighed and did this fucking hover-hand thing over Bucky’s shoulder, like he wasn’t sure if Bucky wanted his touch right now.   
  
“For what?” he finally responded, matter-of-fact like Bucky hadn’t just fucked everything up.   
  
“For… you know. That.” Bucky gestured vaguely at the bed, and when he turned to look at Sam, he was a little surprised to see him looking only faintly concerned.   
  
“No, I don’t know. I need to know what you think you’ve gotta be sorry for,” Sam said.   
  
Was he _really_ gonna make Bucky spell it out? The patient silence that followed indicated that yes, Sam was really gonna make Bucky spell it out. Fuck.   
  
“Christ. I. Did you. Is… did it. I hurt you,” Bucky finally grit out. He sounded almost angry, but it wasn’t aimed at Sam.   
  
“Did I _tell_ you that it hurt?” Sam asked, still annoyingly even. Bucky scowled.   
  
“Didn’t have to.”  
  
“Oh? Is that how this works?”  
  
Bucky grunted in answer.   
  
“Okay. Let’s do this properly. Can you look at me?” Sam continued. “This is a little easier for me if I can see your face, but if you can’t do it right now…”  
  
Bucky reluctantly shuffled backward in the bed so that he could turn to face Sam. He at least owed Sam this.   
  
“You made a– face,” Bucky said suddenly, deciding to just get it over with. Sam looked genuinely nonplussed for a few beats, and then understanding blossomed on his face. Bucky really wished Sam would stop being beautiful for a moment, when he himself was feeling so low. Just for a second.   
  
“I made a _face._ You mean, when you–”  
  
“Put my dick in your ass, yeah.”  
  
“Sweet talker,” Sam snorted. “Okay, no. It’s… not that. I made ‘a face’ because I was tryna relax, not because it felt bad. You get me?”  
  
“Relax?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically even as relief flooded through him.   
  
Sam sighed in a put-upon way. “To… adjust. To the stretch– don’t get a big head, Barnes, I ain’t done this in a while–”  
  
But it was too late. Bucky was _smirking_, and when he looked at Sam through lowered eyelids to make some stupid crack about his _huge member_, they were both in near hysterical laughter from the release of anxiety.   
  
Sam was still half-hiccuping, half giggling when he noticed that Bucky was still looking at him, this time smiling very slightly and more than a little bit suggestively. Sam had had enough fumbling makeouts in college to know what that look meant, and he raised his eyebrows at the man beside him.   
  
“What you looking at?”  
  
“You’re real cute when you smile, Wilson.”  
  
“Ahh, shaddap,” Sam said playfully. Bucky tilted his head, still just watching him. It felt like being in a luxurious bath with the water a little too hot, the steam a little too thick.   
  
“Yeah? Why don’t you make me?”  
  
Instead of rightfully telling Bucky Barnes that he was corny as fuck, Sam found himself leaning into Bucky’s space, ghosting light kisses along his jaw just to feel him shiver. Bucky turned his head to better get to Sam’s mouth, kissing him desperately, almost forcefully – but he subsided almost immediately into tenderness until Sam reached up (damn his injured arm, he’d deal with it later) and pulled Bucky back to nip at his lower lip and whisper that this time, he liked it like that, could Bucky do it like that again?  
  
It could have easily spiraled into a fast, hard fuck – and to be honest, both of them were aching for it – but there was something that made them go slow. Before had been playful and fun, sure, but rushed. When Bucky tried to look at Sam – stare into his deep brown eyes and see him wrinkle his nose in a hidden smile – he just … couldn’t. Eye contact could be a lot for him sometimes, and he felt like utter shit when he had to (_had to_) close his eyes, but… Sam just touched the delicate skin at the corners of his eyes, feather-light, telling him he knew and that it was okay. Bucky was strong enough to bend Sam in half and fuck him up against a wall, but somehow this was more intense.   
  
“Wanna try again?” Sam was asking now, and his voice cracked just a little. Bucky nodded and blinked a few times, coming back to himself.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The smile that blossomed on Sam’s face almost took his breath away, and he knew that he was a fucking goner over this man that, lest we forget, regularly leapt off roofs with a firework strapped to his ass.   
  
“But,” Bucky added sternly, “don’t think I didn’t notice you using that busted arm all willy-nilly–”  
  
“_Willy-nilly?_”  
  
“–so if we’re doing this, you’re taking it easy.”  
  
“What if I don’t _want_ you to take it easy on me, Barnes?” Sam all but purred, and it absolutely went straight to Bucky’s dick. But Sam and Steve weren’t the only stubborn fuckers in the trio.   
  
“I never said I was gonna take it easy,” he replied softly. Sam smiled slowly and nodded as he leaned back onto the bed, and Bucky positioned himself so that he was bundled up behind him, spooning him. There were a few moments of quiet breathing, the soft shuffle of sheets and the far-off keening of the wind outside their window. Sam really thought he could fall asleep just like this, if it weren’t for the slow way that Bucky was rocking his hips against Sam. That was a little distracting. As was Bucky murmuring “Tell me what you want” in a voice that damn near made his eyes roll back in his head.   
  
Sam could think of a million things to ask for, many of which a man with his kinds of injuries shouldn’t even consider, but the warm bed and even warmer bed partner were extremely appealing.   
  
“Grab the lube?” Sam suggested. Bucky stiffened slightly behind him (and not in the fun way), so Sam awkwardly craned his neck to look over his own shoulder at Bucky. “It’ll be okay, Bucky. If either of us needs to bail for any reason, no big deal.”  
  
“I… yeah. Okay.” Bucky handed over the bottle and watched as Sam snapped the lid open and squirted a generous amount into his palm. Maybe too generous. These sheets were gonna be done for.   
  
“Wanna help?” Sam asked, still looking back at Bucky. Bucky quirked an eyebrow and nodded, following Sam’s lead and reaching down to glide his palm along Sam’s inner thighs. He let himself feel a rush of satisfaction as Sam let out a small gasp when Bucky gently cupped his balls, just barely moving his fingers over the delicate skin.   
  
“F-fuckin’... tease…”   
  
“Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy, Wilson.”  
  
“Yeah, but I’d like to _take it_ sometime today,” Sam said. Bucky’s response was to trail one slick finger along the underside of Sam’s dick, and he had to close his eyes when Sam moaned because it was the sexiest fucking sound and Bucky could only take so much at once.   
  
“Bucky,” Sam sighed, and no, nope. That was enough, Bucky was going to _die._  
  
“Wanna feel you,” Bucky groaned. His words were muffled against Sam’s neck, but he got the gist. Sam was good like that.   
  
“Follow my lead, baby,” Sam said as he shuffled back so his beautifully round ass was nestled against Bucky’s groin. _Baby._ He’d called Bucky–  
  
“Like this?”  
  
“Ah– not there… you were right. I was a little tense and… yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight. I’m sorr–”  
  
“Don’t be fuckin’ sorry, Wilson. If you think I’m not 0.5 seconds from shooting off just by touching you…”  
  
Sam smiled, still looking a little embarrassed. For all he talked up Bucky for not beating himself up for his needs in bed, he was yet to extend himself the same kindness.   
  
“I still want you to fuck me, though.”  
  
“I still want to.”  
  
“Okay. Okay. So–” Sam settled back into his position, laying on his side with Bucky curled up behind him. “Just… I’m gonna lift this leg and you put it _there_ and I’ll kinda squeeze ‘em together … and then you can, y’know, move in and out–”  
  
“Are you–” Bucky broke off to sputter disbelievingly a few times, which Sam thought was a little rich. “Are you givin’ me a step-by-step of thigh-fuckin’?”  
  
“I can’t assume you know!” Sam said, a little huffy. “I know it’s not as good as–”  
  
“Wilson, I know we’re in a real vulnerable type of situation right now, but _shut up_.”  
  
“What.”  
  
“Just cos somethin’s different doesn’t mean it’s worse.”  
  
Sam hated when Bucky was right.   
“All right, all right. Spare me the lecture,” he said half-jokingly. As if he hadn’t needed to hear Bucky say that exact thing.   
  
“You okay?” Bucky asked, his voice a little gentler now.   
  
“Yeah. Fuck. I get in my own head sometimes and– yeah. Let’s do this.”  
  
“Can’t imagine what it’s like to get in one’s own hea-ohhhhh _fuck_. Jesus christ Sam your skin is so soft – _fuck_.” Bucky was muttering to himself, but it was all about Sam – how good he felt, how amazing his thighs were, thanking god above Sam never skipped leg day. When Sam made a circle with his forefinger and thumb so that every few thrusts, the head of Bucky’s dick would graze Sam’s fingers and create even more sensation, Bucky was sure he made a sound like a dying animal. Sam didn’t seem to mind, luckily.  
  
“Can you–?” Sam started, at the same time that Bucky started asking “Can I–?” and they were both too far gone to even laugh much about it.   
  
“What do you want? Anything,” Bucky grit out, the words tight from the effort of him trying not to come. Sam grabbed Bucky’s free hand, but instead of guiding him down to Sam’s painfully hard dick, he pulled Bucky’s hand up, where he placed it gently against his own throat.   
“_Ahhh,_ fuck. You– you sure?” Bucky asked, even though a fresh wave of desire had made him feel close to blacking out.   
  
“Yeah, baby. Please, just… gentle, but I like it.” Sam’s breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. The effect of Bucky’s skin-warmed fingers resting, feather-light, on his throat, was immediate. Sam moaned louder than Bucky’d ever heard, and he began rolling his hips back to meet Bucky, causing the sound of bare skin smacking against skin that – was– too–   
  
“I’m gonna, I can’t, Sam I’m gonna–”  
  
“Yeah, come for me, I want it,” Sam was almost babbling, sounding utterly wrecked even though Bucky had hardly tightened the hand resting gently at Sam’s throat. “Want it– on me, all over me, come–”  
  
Bucky buried his face in the crook of Sam’s sweat-slicked bare shoulder when he finally shook apart, his usually-silent orgasm manifesting in a punishing grip on Sam’s hip and a long, drawn-out guttural moan. He barely took a moment to check that he hadn’t _petit mort_ed himself to actual death before he was pulling at Sam, urging him to roll to face Bucky. Sam was a beautiful disaster, sweat beading at his hairline, his eyelids fluttering like he was half-gone.   
  
“Touch me?” Sam asked, and Bucky didn’t wait for him to ask again before he reached down to loosely grab Sam’s dick, and when he realized that some of the slick on Sam’s thighs came from Bucky himself he felt himself getting hard all over again. Sam’s face was beautiful, his lips parted in a moan, his thick brows drawn in a frown that Bucky now knew meant _pleasure_, not pain.   
“I’m … close,” Sam was panting now. “I want – no, baby, just like that, yeah. Yeah, yeah just like _that_.” Through the hazy fog of _sex good yes feel nice_, Bucky’s brain brought up what Sam had said not two minutes ago: _want it on me, all over me_ and he switched hands. Sam’s eyes were closed, but they shot open when Bucky’s fingers, sticky with lube and his own come, touched the overheated skin at his throat. And although Bucky didn’t look for very long (_too much too intense_), the look of pure bliss in Sam’s half-lidded eyes went straight to his head like good scotch.   
  
* * *   
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“You called me _baby_, Sam.”  
  
“Ahh, _fuck_.”  
  
“Did you mean to call me baby?”  
  
“Words… happen.”  
  
Bucky turned his head to look at Sam, who was still flat on his back with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.   
  
“What the hell does ‘words happen’ mean, Sam.”  
  
“It means, _stop asking me questions, I just shot half my life force out my dick_,” Sam said listlessly. He flopped his hand around on the mattress, seeking Bucky’s. They were kind of doing things out of order: kissing, fucking, then sweetly holding hands. Well, hadn’t Sam been happy to not follow orders anymore?   
  
Bucky opened his mouth to say something (probably something annoying), but his stomach growled loudly enough to startle both of them. “We should make something for dinner.”  
  
“Fuck that, I’m tired.”  
  
“I was hoping you’d say that, cos I don’t feel like cooking,” Bucky grinned. He was bone-tired too, but it was the _good_ kind of tired for once. “Wanna order from that Thai place?”  
  
“Green curry shrimp and coconut rice sounds better than sex right now,” Sam said. Bucky gave him a sour look before offering him a hand out of bed. They spent a few companionable moments getting back into their warm houseclothes, since the rest of the apartment was likely much colder than their current room.   
  
“I’ll call, but you gotta order ‘cause your accent’s better than mine and they always give me the wrong kind of–” Bucky suddenly stopped talking.  
  
Sam finished checking his bandage (remarkably unsoiled, considering) and looked up. Bucky had gone ahead of him into the living room, so he assumed he just got distracted looking at the takeout menu. When he heard a voice that wasn’t Bucky’s, though, he dropped his sock on the ground and crept as quietly to his room door as he could. He was injured and exhausted, but being on high alert made his heart start to race. If someone had broken into their place, it meant they’d been found, which meant they were as good as dead.   
  
He crept down the dark hallway, cursing himself for not being more aware. If Bucky had been killed, or worse, captured, Sam would–  
  
Wait.   
  
He knew that voice.   
  
“Sam!” Steve Rogers was sitting on their couch, dark-haired and heavily bearded in a dirty old parka. He looked rough, but he beamed when he saw Sam step out into the living room. Bucky was grabbing the jar of instant coffee from one of their cabinets, and when he turned back to face them he was grimacing a little, although his face softened when he caught sight of Sam. They’d talked about it just earlier that same week during the World’s Worst Confession, but it’s one thing to talk about something in theory. Steve’s timing was also really, really, impressively laser-point accurate in its badness.  
  
Ahhh, _shit._   
  
“Sam, it’s so good to see you’re okay.” Steve sagged back into their couch, running his hands through already messy hair. “I came as soon as I could, soon as Buck sent that message.”  
  
Sam felt himself smiling, unbidden. He couldn’t help it. Steve felt like home. Shit, maybe these two ancient white boys _both_ did. Bucky didn’t have any particular facial expression (which was in itself very expressive), but he definitely relaxed noticeably when Sam walked over to his side and offered his hand. _I’m in this with you_.   
  
Steve was in the middle of explaining how he’d snuck across the border by pretending to be a confused Canadian tourist, but his voice faltered when his eyes darted to Sam and Bucky’s intertwined fingers.  
  
“Oh!” he said. Then, “Oh.”  
  
“Oh,” he added helpfully.   
  
“Might be first time in your life you’ve been speechless,” Bucky said mildly. Sam closed his eyes briefly and breathed deeply. These two were what was going to give him an ulcer, not the stress of their dangerous missions.  
  
“I’m… that’s. Great!” Steve took a beat and Sam could almost feel him tucking his hurt away into the No-No Emotions Box. “Really. It is,” and this time he meant it. His expression was fond as he looked at them, even though it was tinged with something – sadness? regret? that he couldn’t hide although the others knew he was doing his utmost.   
  
“Yeah, it’s pretty okay,” Sam finally said. Bucky looked almost bashful as he snuck a look at Sam, and Steve blinked again. He’d seen Bucky have crushes on people before, but…  
  
Sam cleared his throat. “So… listen, I know you just got here from dragging your ass halfway across Europe–”   
  
“Sure smells like it,” Bucky muttered. When Steve answered with a subtly raised middle finger, Bucky knew that Steve really was going to be okay after all. The little shit.   
  
“Can we talk?” Sam asked.   
  
* * *   
  
“Heard you might have something to tell me,” Sam said evenly. Steve had showered and washed his hair, changed into clothes of theirs that clung for dear life to his body, eaten a portion and a half of Thai food before slowing even a little. As Sam spoke, Steve blanched and then shot Bucky a dirty look for outing him. Bucky ignored it.  
  
“It’s… ha. Can I plead the fifth?” Steve tried to joke. No one laughed, and he looked rueful as he rubbed his neck.   
“I don’t know what to say, Sam.”   
  
“Saying _something_ would be a start. If there’s still something to say.”  
  
_Touche. _Steve looked between the two of them, trying to suss out his place in all this, if any.   
  
“I’m an idiot,” Steve muttered.   
  
“No argument here, pal,” Bucky said under his breath. One of Sam’s eyebrows twitched, but he remained quiet.   
  
“I mean… Sam, I don’t wanna ruin anything. The moment’s passed, and that’s on me.”  
  
Even though Sam’s callsign was _Falcon_, the way that he slowly steepled his fingers and lightly rested his chin on them was distinctly feline in its grace.   
“Has it?”  
  
“Well,” Steve started, before seeing the crooked grin on Bucky’s face. The same one he used to get whenever Steve was about to say something stupid (usually to a pretty girl). Sam’s gaze felt heavy, and Steve suddenly found himself flushing warm down his neck.   
“Oh,” he breathed.   
  
“Yes, _oh._”  
  
“You mean–?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“But… what about you and Bucky?”  
  
“Bed’s a little small, but you’ll fit,” Bucky said to the ceiling. His ears were tipped pink, though. A dead giveaway that he wanted this too.   
  
“You’re both… okay with–?”  
  
“Yes,” Sam said as Bucky nodded.   
  
“Wow.”  
  
“Yes, _wow._”  
  
Steve smiled, small and hopeful.   
  
“So,” Sam said, reaching to take Bucky’s hand again, “_did_ you have something to tell me?”  
  
Steve leaned forward, impossibly earnest.  
“You’ve got some … white stuff… there, on your neck. I thought it was lotion at first, but now I’m thinking it’s probably spunk–”  
  
Hearing this, Bucky choked on air, and Sam started thinking maybe he shoulda stayed his ass in DC, after all.  
  


* * *   
  
It took Steven Grant Rogers almost a day and a half to tell Sam he loved him.  
  
**07:38.**  
  
“I’ve had feelings for you since… ah, the second time we met,” Steve said the next morning over oatmeal.   
  
“Only the second? I shoulda worn my booty shorts to go jogging that day,” Sam sighed.  
  
* * *  
  
**14:06.**  
  
Steve tapped his pencil on the table, his eyes focused on Sam’s. He was earnest in an intense way that would ring false with just about anyone else.   
“I didn’t know the right time to bring it up – there was the mess with S.H.I.E.L.D., and then we had to find Buck…”  
  
“I _let_ you find me,” Bucky said flatly without looking up from the battered Harlequin romance novel he was reading intently.   
  
* * *   
  
**20:27.**  
  
“And it’s okay? Having me and… and Buck?”  
  
“Well, I don’t know that I could _have_ you both at once,” Sam murmured thoughtfully. “I haven’t tried two men at the same time, but I’m open to the idea–”  
  
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, Sam,” Steve whispered after a pause that told Sam that it was certainly on Steve’s mind _now_.   
  
“Wasn’t it?”  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“Fine, okay. I’m obviously okay with it, or else I wouldn’t have brought it up. The question is if _you’re_ okay with it.”  
  
“I just don’t want to get jealous.”  
  
“You can get jealous, Steve. Most people do. You just gotta deal with it, and I don’t mean ‘repress it,’ I mean face it head on. This – the three of us – it’s gonna mean a lot of talking about uncomfortable stuff. If you don’t think you can do it… I’ll understand, man. It’s not for everyone.”  
  
“I want to be with you. And… and I like how happy you are with Buck.”  
  
“So we’ll work on it,” Sam said softly. “I’m not perfect, Rogers. I don’t expect you to be, either.”  
  
_ “If you two are done jabbering loud enough to wake the dead,”_ Bucky said acidly the comms, _“I’ve got movement over by the east exit, heading your way.”_  
  
“Bucky, that’s Sam’s neighbour’s grandkid.”  
  
_ “She could be Hydra.”_  
  
“She’s 8 years old,” Sam chimed in.  
  
_ “I’m starting to think you don’t even _want _to catch the other Winter Soldiers,”_ Bucky sniffed.  
  
* * *  
  
**03:51.**  
  
“How is this gonna work?”  
  
“You manage not to steal the covers, I’ll manage not to knee you in the ass.”  
  
“You know what I mean, Buck.”  
  
“Steve… Sam’s already said what he needs. I know what I need. I trust him.”  
  
“Me too. With my life. And I’m happy, I am. I just wonder sometimes, how can he feel like that? About both of us?”  
  
“I’ve got a big heart, and you two have big mouths and don’t know how to whisper properly,” Sam said from his place between the two men.   
“Go to _bed,_ or I’m taking the couch. And if you think I’m not taking the good duvet with me, you’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
“Sorry, Sam,” Steve murmured soothingly. His fingers skated down Sam’s uninjured arm, as wonderous that he could touch his warm skin as Bucky had been. Steve was reverent with his touches, gentler than Bucky but just as enamoured with the feel and smell and warmth of Sam Wilson. “Just still getting used to … all this. That I can have this.”  
  
“You better not be referring to me as ‘this,’” Sam joked, already half-asleep again. Bucky’s arm was already draped over him, carefully avoiding his bad arm. When Steve tentatively reached to embrace Sam to him too, his fingers brushed Bucky’s. After a pause, his friend gave his fingers a light squeeze. _We got you._   
  
“Yuhn… too… hot,” Sam mumbled. When they moved slightly to give him more breathing room, he snuggled right back against them and fell asleep.   
  
* * *   
  
**06:42.**  
  
“Sam, I love you.”  
  
Bucky had to pat Sam’s back hard several times, because he’d just choked on his coffee at Steve’s sudden announcement.   
  
“Couldn’t even give it a week, eh Stevie?” Bucky said over Sam’s hacking and wheezing. Steve flushed slightly as he got up from his chair and rubbed Sam’s back soothingly, but he had that familiar stubborn set to his jaw.   
  
“Y’all… please… give a man some room,” Sam finally managed to rasp. When they both looked kind of crestfallen, Sam clarified: “Just physically. I got coffee all over my shirt and I haven’t even showered yet.” You could practically feel them relax when they realized they weren’t suddenly getting the I-need-some-space talk.  
  
“I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that,” Steve said apologetically. He flopped back into his chair, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. One of these days, they’d have a _nice_ safehouse. Maybe.   
“I’d just been sitting on it for so long,” he continued.   
  
Sam was busy drinking water, but managed to give him a salacious eyebrow raise. Bucky smirked.  
  
“Oh, _come on,_ guys. Not everything I say is about sex,” Steve grumbled.  
  
“Just most things,” Sam deadpanned. Of the three of them, Steve was surprisingly the horniest, always slipping his fingers under Sam’s sweater or the waist of his pants once he knew Sam was amenable. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time. Sam wasn’t complaining, although between the two of them he wasn’t sure it was helpful for his still-healing wounds.  
  
“I don’t want you to think you have to say it back,” Steve said, frowning a little. “I just know better than to let chances pass me by. Again.” Sam smiled softly, still beautiful although there was indeed coffee dribbled down the front of his soft yellow t-shirt. He wasn’t ready to say it back, but he took Steve’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. The tender gesture was more than answer enough, and even Bucky came over a bit sappy.   
  
Then, all three of their mobiles rang at the same time.   
  
_“**Have. You. Enjoyed. Your. Rest. Stop.**_**_  
__  
_**_**Do. Not. Forget. Your. Missions. Stop.**”_  
  
The automated voice, loud and clear on their phone speakers, rang through the now silent room. None of them had answered their mobile, putting caution before all. It hadn’t made a difference.   
  
Sam made to stand, but Bucky’s hand tightened on his. He looked… _scared_, which wasn’t surprising considering that their safehouse and communication devices were utterly compromised.   
  
“If you’re going to tell me to sit this one out,” Sam started. Bucky shook his head and gestured to the screen of Sam’s next phone. A picture had been sent to the three of them.  
  
A tall, handsome man with tightly coiled, short-cropped hair. It was hard to tell what ethnicity he was, but he certainly wasn’t white. That wasn’t what made Sam feel sick, though. (At least, not the only thing.) The picture was clearly a candid, taken from across the street. The man was laughing heartily, his hand clasped companionably on the shoulder of the woman laughing next to him.   
  
She was Sam’s old coworker. They were standing in front of the VA in DC.  
  
Their next target had nestled himself right into Sam’s life.  
  



	4. run, run, run (to your grave)

Before leaving for the States, they’d ripped their safehouse apart, scooping all the boxes of tea, small collection of paperbacks, all the detritus of living they’d collected in their 9 months and change of living in Latovia. They’d packed it all into unmarked cardboard boxes and burned it in a dumpster far from the centre of the city, where the streetlamps rarely flickered to life. They stood in silence, the crackling of flames and occasional shatter or pop from a small but beloved object exploding in the heat being the only sounds. Bucky could feel Sam’s tension, could see it in every line of his body as he stared blankly into the flames. Could feel his rage. On Sam’s other side, Steve was practically trembling with it. His fists were balled at his sides, as if to stop himself fighting the fire itself. And Bucky? Bucky was slipping into a clear-headed, cold place that used to terrify him until he realized he could choose when to go there. He didn’t, often. He didn’t have the need or desire. But when Sam had been hurt in his last encounter, he’d stepped easily into that place. And now he would again. He was going to kill their target before Sam even got to D.C.  
  
Or at least, that had been his plan.  
  
“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of this,” Steve said bleakly. It was 4 days later, and he and Sam were dumping their bags onto the bed of their Airbnb rental. Sam had considered going back to his own place for a fraction of a second before realizing he probably never could again. That was fine. Well, not _fine_, but it was certainly motivating him even more. These fuckers had come for his personal life, and he wasn’t about that shit at all.  
  
“Would I be able to talk _you_ out of something like this?” Sam asked wryly. Steve pursed his lips and fell silent. Things were a little tense; Sam and Bucky had had an argument about the mission just this morning, and Bucky had stalked off somewhere to clear his head. Sam insisted on running point because it was his workplace and his friends in danger; Bucky argued that it was his responsibility to take out the Winter Soldiers, and besides, Sam had damn near died the last time. This target probably had even more of a heads up than the first had.  
  
Steve had been uncomfortably caught in the middle, although neither Sam nor Bucky demanded he take a side. Even at their angriest, they respected each other at least that much.  
  
Sam was wearing a long-sleeved shirt despite the unusually warm autumn weather. His arm still had a light bandage on it, and he didn’t want to get any awkward questions that he’d have to lie his way through. Especially since some of his coworkers knew him too well to fall for his bullshit. He was sweating slightly, and it had little to do with the temperature. Their intel (provided by their unsettling benefactor) indicated that this Winter Soldier specialized in ‘information extraction,’ a.k.a. torture. Bucky _remembered_ him, even when some of his other ‘siblings’ were mere blurs in his mind. The man had always had a sorrowful look in his hazel brown eyes when he’d selected just the right scalpel or lovingly run his fingers along the curve of sharp forceps. Like he didn’t _want_ to be doing this, but he simply _had_ to use his talents for the greater good, couldn’t you understand?  
  
Sam’s phone (a different one, as they’d burned all their other phones with everything else) buzzed in his pocket. He read the message on the screen and then angled the phone so that Steve could see, too:  
  
_B.B. [12:06] sorry___  
_B.B. [12:06] i dont want you to die___  
_B.B. [12:07] sue me_  
  
Steve sighed and touched Sam’s hand to get his attention. When Sam looked his way, he hesitated briefly, but he eventually spoke.  
“I have an idea. Can you call Bucky?”  
  
Sam frowned a little, but he pressed the call button and put it on speaker. They were probably being bugged, but things couldn’t get more dire than they were right now. They had to take this guy out _today._  
  
Bucky answered on the second ring.  
  
_ “Sam?”_  
  
“Barnes,” Sam answered with a surprising lilt to his voice, “can we not fuckin’ do that again? Playfighting is one thing, but that shit wasn’t cute.”  
  
Bucky huffed out a surprised laugh, and Steve sighed next to Sam like _they_ were stressing _him_.  
  
“Steve Rogers has an idea,” Sam continued.  
  
_ “Steve Rogers has a lot of ideas, and a lot of them end up nearly getting me killed,”_ Bucky shot back.  
  
“Well, if _some_ people didn’t try to add their own little twist on my plans, _some _people wouldn’t have gotten shot in the ass that time.” Steve couldn’t help himself.  
  
_ “Sometimes I hate having my memory back,”_ Bucky muttered. _“All right, smartass. Let’s hear it.”_  
  


* * *

  
“Samuel! Oh my god, you look _terrible!_”  
  
“Thanks, Meemee,” Sam drawled, even though he accepted her tight hug with a smile. Amelia (Meemee to her friends) Meremikwu was barely 5 ft tall, but her carefully fluffed Afro brought it up a couple inches. She had been Sam’s best friend in the department, one of the first people to demand they go out to coffee so they could have a “White people, am I right?” venting session. She had also been the person in the picture with their next target, laughing unawares alongside a killer and mutilator. It made Sam’s stomach roil.  
  
“I’m serious, Samuel. You’ve lost too much weight–” Meemee paused and leaned in, perhaps realizing that Sam might want privacy. “Are you okay? Is it… are you on something, honey? You can tell me.” There was no judgement, only soft concern. There was a reason she was one of their most sought-after counsellors.  
  
“No, Meemee. I’m… I’m okay. Just stressed.” It was the truth, but somehow being back home and seeing his friends was hitting him harder than he’d expected. He needed to be focused.  
  
“All right, Samuel,” she said with a nod. She always called him ‘Samuel,’ and was just about the only one who could make it sound like a pet name. “What brings you by, my dear? Just to see me?” Her eyes flickered to the man coming up behind Sam, just briefly. It was Bucky, hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, a weathered black baseball cap shoved on his head. He’d gotten brown contact lenses from an accessory store nearby, and based on how itchy they were, he was fairly sure they weren’t FDA-approved. Nonetheless, by changing his posture and hiding his bulk under a nondescript sweatshirt, Bucky Barnes was now a forgettable face in the crowd.  
  
“Met a new friend,” Sam said, gesturing to Bucky as he spoke. Meemee turned to smile at Bucky, greeting him warmly but not offering her hand; she’d clearly taken her cue from the way the man was tucked in, hunched over like he didn’t even want to be seen. Bucky returned the smile briefly, simply nodding once.  
  
Sam quietly told Meemee that ‘Jordan’ was considering joining a group session, jokingly asking “Who’s taken my place in your heart, anyway?” Well. He was _kinda_ joking. When she answered, it confirmed what he, Steve and Bucky had already known. It didn’t make it any easier to hear.  
  
It was him. He went by Francis Beadle, which was a nice unassuming name for a fucking assassin. It sounded a little dorky, in fact. A pretty good cover.  
  
“He’s finishing up a session now, last of the day,” Meemee said, waving to them to follow her. She looked like she was debating something as she walked them to the large room where Sam used to spend his afternoons and evenings as a counsellor. It felt eerie. Wrong. Invasive. Which, of course, had been the point.  
  
“Jordan, do you want to sit in? It’s almost over, but you can get a feel for the place, maybe meet a couple folks?”  
  
Jordan/Bucky nodded to show he’d heard, and slipped into the room before shuffling his way to the back. Almost as soon as he sat, one of the men slumped a few chairs down from him leaned over and murmured something. Jordan/Bucky hunched a little more, but soon seemed to be listening intently and nodding.  
  
“You got a moment?” Meemee asked Sam in a whisper. Sam tore his gaze away from Bucky and moved a few steps away from the open door, following her lead.  
“I’ve been trying to call you. We miss you, and I don’t just mean your charming smile.”  
  
Sam tilted his head questioningly, waiting for her to continue.  
  
She looked around before lowering her voice even more.  
“Francis is great, the staff all love him, but…”  
  
“But?” Sam prompted. He was afraid of the answer, but there was a small vindictive part of him that was glad ‘Francis’ wasn’t making a wholly positive impression.  
  
“_But_ the clients… I dunno, Samuel. They’re not warming to him.”  
  
_They can probably sense a whiff of Nazi from a mile away._ “Any idea why?”  
  
“Personally, I get the sense they don’t trust him. At first, I thought it might be the change of you leaving, a new person taking your spot and everything. But Samuel, almost all of the people in these afternoon sessions are _new_, they’ve never met you, and… still, nada. They don’t go to one-on-ones with him, not like with you.”  
  
“They’re not comfortable with him?”  
  
“Truthfully? I don’t think they are. And… I mean, he’s got the credentials, he’s got glowing performance reviews from his previous jobs. But if our clients aren’t taking to him –”  
  
“He’s gotta go,” Sam said softly. It would have been the same with any new hire that wasn’t vibing with the people they were meant to serve, but that went doubly– _triply_ – for this fucker.  
  
“I’m thinking they’re going to give him his letter by next week,” Meemee said. She seemed a little sad, and Sam knew she was feeling bad for what she thought was a nice young man about to get shitcanned. For her sake, maybe he would leave her in the dark on this one.  
  
“That’s rough,” Sam said vaguely. He was distracted by worrying that if Francis got fired, he’d disappear again and show up somewhere even more disturbing later. How would he get to him now?  
  
Almost as if she’d heard him fretting silently, Meemee offered an in without realizing it.  
“I was hoping you could grab a coffee with him or something. Maybe offer some pointers, pick his brain? If we can figure out why he’s not connecting with the clients …”  
  
Sam pretended to think it over. He didn’t know how he’d manage to have a showdown with a Winter Soldier in a coffeehouse, but he and Bucky would have to improvise. Luckily, this time they had a little more backup.  
  


* * *

  
They settled on meeting up in a nearby park after Francis was finished work.  
  
Sam completely ignored Maria Hill two benches away from him and Bucky. She was striking, her fawn-brown skin dusted with charming freckles that Sam knew she absolutely didn’t usually have. Her hair was in an updo with just enough escaped locs to look accidental, and her crisp pencil skirt and soft pink blouse were slightly rumpled. The perfect vision of a businesswoman enjoying a cup of overpriced coffee at the end of a long day, and she’d pulled this off with less than an hour’s notice.  
  
It was incredibly difficult to also ignore the man sitting beside her, though. Steve was still dark-haired, and he’d trimmed his beard to something more respectable-looking. His hair was slicked back and parted on the side, and his suit jacket was hugging his ridiculous shoulders–  
  
Bucky subtly elbowed Sam in the side. His face didn’t change, but he opened his mouth just enough to hiss “_Focus_” at Sam. Sam cleared his throat and went back to pretending to enjoy his soft pretzel, which might as well have been styrofoam for all he could taste it. Bucky was right, much as he hated to admit it.  
  
Francis didn’t take long to show up, and he seemed to recognize Sam immediately. With a friendly smile and wave that Sam did his best to return for the sake of the charade, Francis made his way to their picnic table (possibly the least dignified place to have a showdown) and grabbed a seat.  
  
“Sam Wilson, it’s such a pleasure to finally get to meet you,” he said. His voice was pleasant, deep but soft, with every word pronounced with care. Sam hated it immediately.  
“I’ve heard so much about you.”  
  
Bucky tensed almost imperceptibly beside Sam the minute that Francis spoke, and Sam could imagine what hearing that voice again was doing to him. None of them were in a great headspace for this encounter, which might have been exactly what Francis was counting on.  
  
Even though Bucky hadn’t moved beyond jerking his head in a curt greeting, Francis’ hazel eyes darted to him immediately. _Shit._  
  
“Nice to meet you too,” Sam said, trying to draw his attention from Bucky’s face. “Heard good things about you, man.”  
  
When Francis spoke, it was without moving his gaze from Bucky. “Oh, I doubt that’s true, Sam.”  
  
Nearby, Maria and Steve burst into laughter over some shared joke. It was also their signal that they were on high alert and ready to jump in at any time based on what they heard over the comms hidden cleverly somewhere at Sam and Bucky’s table. Steve’s knack for strategy, combined with Hill’s expertise in espionage, was a near-unstoppable machine. Sam just hoped that it was enough.  
  
“Hello, James. Were you trying to hide from me?” Francis was blandly pleasant, not at all like Ewa and her snide mockery. Sam had hoped for at least a few minutes’ respite before Bucky was recognized, though.  
“Your little costume isn’t half-bad,” Francis continued. He leaned in, and both Sam and Bucky instinctively leaned back slightly. “But you can’t hide your _smell._”  
  
Sam thought he was going to throw up.  
  
“Everyone has a unique smell of fear,” Francis said. “During our training, I got pretty familiar with–”  
  
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Sam said firmly. “I didn’t sign up to listen to your fucked-up TEDtalk, so let’s get to the part where you try to kill us.” Why, why, _why_ did Hydra always have to monologue?  
  
“Mm. I’d heard you were more of an action man, Wilson. Not much of a talker, eh?”  
  
“Oh, I talk plenty. Just don’t have anything to say to Nazis.”  
  
“As much as I enjoy your witty comebacks, I was talking to James.”  
  
“It’s _Bucky_,” the man in question finally said. It came out as more of a growl, but he wasn’t as hunched in on himself as he was before. In fact, he didn’t seem as tense, either. He seemed kind of… calm.  
  
“Sorry, yes. Bucky. So, _Bucky_, how’s it been going? I see your fingernails grew back just fine since last time I saw you.”  
  
Sam felt like he was trapped in some kind of hellscape, where casually discussing torture on a balmy autumn day was a-okay.  
  
“Yup. Can’t wait to use ‘em to push your eyes in,” Bucky replied. Maria smoothed a few strands of hair into her bun as she chatted animatedly with Steve. She was all but ready to leap at Francis with guns blazing, to say nothing of Steve. He was doing a good job of keeping up with Hill’s conversation, but he might as well have been made of granite for how rigid his posture was.  
  
“Jesus Christ. Okay, let’s quit the territorial housecat routine for a second. What the fuck do you _want_, Francis?”  
  
“You’re right, might as well get to the point. I’m here to let you know you’re off the hook– ah, thanks.” The interruption was caused by a harried-looking UberEats worker who set a tiny to-go cup of espresso in front of Francis, collected their payment, and rushed off to make their next delivery.  
  
“Off the hook for what?” Sam echoed, impatient as soon as the worker cycled away.  
  
“Your missions. You’re done.”  
  
“You’re the one that was sending the intel,” Bucky said suddenly. Francis smiled and reached into his shirt pocket. Sam and Bucky watched him warily, but he merely took out a couple packets of sugar, lightly tapping them against his palm to shake the contents into some kind of order.  
  
“Got it in one, Bucky. I hope you two don’t mind the sugar? I know it’s heresy to add it to a good shot of espresso, but–”  
  
“I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck,” Sam hissed. Francis raised his eyebrows and tore open the packets, pouring sugar into his tiny cup. Strangely, he seemed to be staring right at Sam with an intensity that seemed a little unnecessary.  
“Why would you give us information about your… your _siblings_ or whatever?” Sam continued, thoroughly sick of the whole meetup already.  
  
“Had a change of heart lately,” Francis said. He was still looking Sam right in the eyes, even though he was using a stir-stick to swirl his coffee.  
  
“Bullshit,” Bucky snapped. Francis looked at him with mild surprise, as if he’d forgotten that a fellow former Winter Soldier was sitting right across from him.  
  
“In a sense, I really have,” Francis murmured. He blew across his cup, although the espresso couldn’t possibly have been hot any more. Bucky sat up, the movement so sudden that Sam flinched slightly.  
  
“Goddamn _bastard_,” Bucky said savagely, his eyes boring into Francis. Although Sam didn’t disagree, he was at a loss.  
  
Francis didn’t dispute it, merely shrugging as he finished the coffee in one long swallow. Heaving a sigh that sounded strangely relieved, he reached into his bag before tossing a handful of glossy photographs onto the table.  
  
Sam really did come close to vomiting, then. Bucky squeezed his hand hard, as if trying to ground him. It barely helped.  
  
“This one is Ewa,” Francis said as he pointed to one of the photos. “You can’t really tell because of the condition of her corpse after the fire – good job with that, Bucky – but I know she had a titanium hip replacement after a real bad training session, back in the day.” He tapped on the little glint of metal in the horror show of a picture.  
  
“Moving on… where is it… ah. Okay. This is Sven. Well, that’s not his real name, but it doesn’t matter any more, huh? Rogers got him pretty easy. Wasn’t much fun for _me_, but at least the job got done.” Sam’s head was spinning, and Bucky broke all protocol and looked over at Steve. Steve had given up all pretense, his head in his hands and his fingers tightly gripping his hair. Sam was busy staring at the photograph.  
  
‘Sven’ had been an eerie doppelganger of Steve, right down to the crooked smile.  
  
“Yeah, our handlers thought it was real funny too. Got him all cut up to look like Captain America, get them a matching set. Barnes and Rogers. Get it?” Francis snorted like he'd just told a bad pun.  
  
When neither Sam nor Bucky responded, Francis shrugged. “I dunno, _I _thought it was funny. Anyway – Rogers got him, snapped his neck. Left the corpse laying around. Had to take care of it myself. Cap turned and ran with his tail between his legs, went and hid in some shack in the forest for _months._ Boring.”  
  
Hill also gave up the ruse – what was the point anymore? – and lay a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder. He didn’t relax one inch, and Sam almost ditched the entire thing to go to him. But they had to see this through. They’d come so far for this.  
  
Sam finally looked away from the gruesome picture and was surprised to see Francis looking suddenly exhausted. The espresso didn’t seem to have helped, and his body moved sluggishly when he moved to point at the next picture.  
  
“This one was my favourite. He didn’t have that many kills, because he was –”  
  
“I don’t give a damn. He dead?” Bucky asked. Francis looked mildly offended.  
  
“Well, yeah. He killed himself in 2000–”  
  
“Good.” Bucky’s complete lack of sympathy would have been unsettling in almost any other situation. In this one, though? _Fuck_ sympathy.  
  
Sam finally found his voice. “How many others are left?”  
  
Francis seemed put out by their refusal to indulge in his theatrics. Irritably, he pointed to two more photos.  
“I killed him last weekend because he was going to go after you, and that pissed me off. And _she_ had to be dealt with because–”  
  
“We don’t care _why_ you did it,” Bucky said flatly. Francis sneered– or tried to. His face was starting to slacken, his gaze becoming distant and unfocused. If Sam didn’t know any better–  
  
“You got a cyanide pill in your tooth or something?” he asked. Francis shrugged, listless. Bucky made a noise of disgust and jabbed his finger at the tiny espresso cup, now laying on its side.  
“You fucking poisoned yourself?” Sam asked, incredulous. Francis’ mouth moved in what seemed to be a smile. Sam understood why Bucky had reacted so strongly to Francis adding that ‘sugar’ to his own drink, then. He must have smelled the poison, even from across the table.  
  
“Sam…” Francis’ voice was faint and drowsy, but Sam didn’t move much closer. He knew better than to do that.  
“Don’t you… want to… know… why?”  
  
“Why you’re offing yourself? Not rocket science; you're a piece of shit that doesn't wanna face consequences for _being a Nazi_.”  
  
Francis exhaled heavily. It might have been an attempt at a laugh.  
  
“No. Why… I… why… a Black… man… joined… Hydra. You … must… be curious.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes and took three deep, steadying breaths. He _did_ want to know. He’d seen the pictures, and not all of the Winter Soldiers were white. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, even though he understood that self-hatred could run _deep._ Sam wanted to grab the dying man and shake him, ask him _why the hell_ he would submit himself knowingly to something like the Winter Soldier program.  
  
It took all his self control for him to look away and say, “Not really.” As far as Sam was concerned, Francis could take it to the unmarked grave, and he did.   
****


	5. the more you feel, the more you will take with you

_(Epilogue)_**  
**  
Sam spent the first four weeks after Francis’ death living by himself. Francis had left them one final gift – no trace at all. He had no credit cards, and he’d paid his rent in cash. He didn’t go to the same restaurants or supermarkets often enough to be noticed by workers. The only people who noticed his absence were Amelia and some of her coworkers. The clients at the VA noticed he didn’t turn up anymore, of course, but they didn’t seem to care much.  
  
Sam was offered his old position back, but he couldn’t make himself take it. Not now, not like this. Instead, he helped the department with hiring and interviews. It took longer than he’d’ve liked, but it was worth it to find the perfect candidate: a veteran-turned-kindergarten-teacher-turned-counsellor who had one of the sweetest smiles and wickedest senses of humour Sam had ever seen. They would be a perfect fit for the job.  
  
That wasn’t why Sam was alone in an unassuming but clean apartment that was, bit by bit, gaining the little touches he needed to make the place feel more like home. Bucky was on recon, making sure that Francis’ information on the other Winter Soldiers’ deaths was accurate. He didn’t ask Sam to come, and Sam didn’t offer for once. He just… couldn’t. He knew the feeling of burnout creeping up, and he decided to get ahead of it. For once.  
  
Although he loved Bucky, he welcomed the chance to be alone and just _think_ for a while. Sam _loved_ that man, and it was the trauma of their encounter with Francis that had sealed it. Bucky had said and done things that chilled the blood. He’d worn cruelty like an outfit belonging to another – serviceable but uncomfortable, never settled into it like he wanted it. Sam knew he loved that grumpy eats-all-the-peanut-butter kicks-my-blankets-off-in-his-sleep man, because he knew Bucky was all the more gentle for all the harshness he’d been dealt. And it was more than reciprocated, although he still acted unsure that he was allowed to feel for Sam as fiercely as he did. Sam knew it in the way that Bucky always woke up the second Sam did, rubbed the gross stuff from his eyes so he could blink sleepily at him. How he still softly touched the warm skin of his throat, the bruises long faded, how he kissed Sam’s neck and huffed a croaky laugh when Sam squirmed. He _really_ knew it because during a day where he’d been too out of it to do much more than eat and sleep, Bucky had offered him a scalp massage, of all things. Sam had balked, but when Bucky looked sheepish and pulled out a small tub of hair cream, sweet-smelling and thick, he relented. Bucky had known Sam was out of the stuff and had gone skulking through the aisles of a local hair supply shop, found the brand by sniffing dozens of pots of haircare products even though the combined smells overwhelmed him. Sam had felt like crying a little at the gesture. He had actually cried a little when Bucky’s sure fingers moved through his short hair, careful and slow so as not to snag the tight coils. They’d sat in near-darkness for what felt like hours, speaking in low voices. Saying what they’d known for months, what they’d never said but had wanted to.  
  
A few days after Francis’ death, Bucky left Sam with a kiss and a promise that he’d come back no matter what.  
  
Steve… Steve needed time. _Sam and Steve_ needed time. They’d been shaken up the whole ordeal. Their trust, which had only gotten stronger since their meet-cute in Washington, was tested. Steve burned with shame and guilt; he wouldn’t talk about what he and Sven, his Hydra lookalike, had talked about before he’d killed him. He gave only the barest minimum information about his time after that, where he’d kept them in the dark for months. He wasn’t ready to talk to Sam about it, but he _was_ talking to someone. Hill (and, Sam suspected, Fury) had passed along information on a therapist who was familiar with their line of work. Sam had let Steve get on with it. It wasn’t, _couldn’t_ be his burden to bear this time.  
  
Sam had felt hurt. Not physically anymore, although the wound on his arm healed darker and shinier than the rest of his skin. He couldn’t help but feel stung that Steve hadn’t felt he could come to him and Bucky in his dark hour. Wasn’t that what they did?  
  
It took Sam a little while to realize that he knew exactly why Steve had stayed away. _We don’t bleed on other people_, he’d said to Steve over drinks, years ago. _That’s what we got in common._  
  
When he finally called Steve back that weekend and he’d turned up at his door within the hour, they’d fallen into each other like they were drowning. The wheres and whys and how-could-yous seemed less urgent than the air between each kiss, the way Steve held Sam in his lap as he moved under him. Like he could fuck his desperate apologies into him. Steve whispered _I missed you, I miss you, I love you_ and Sam murmured _Don’t do that to me, Don’t ever do that to us, I love you_ against Steve’s lips. They laughed when Steve burned spaghetti sauce on the stovetop, and it made their chests ache because it felt like a year since they’d had this. They read text messages from Bucky over each other’s shoulders. They skipped their morning jogs. Steve’s hand was a solid presence on Sam’s skin, sliding along the curve of his back and pressing Sam down onto to mattress the way he loved. Sam’s mouth brushed kisses that Steve felt he didn’t deserve but greedily took anyway.  
  
And each night, Steve returned to his own place. It was a temporary rental, not far from Sam. Sam needed to hear the fridge kick on in the middle of the night and startle him awake. He needed to roll over and feel the cool sheets on his fingertips, devoid of bedmates’ body heat. He needed to stretch, to touch the sides of his life without them. He needed to _know_. Is this what he wanted? He had been through a lot and, as his sister angrily pointed out every time they Facetimed, much of the blame could be placed at their feet.  
  
So Sam spent time alone. He sprawled on the couch, he drank shitty beer and good scotch, he watched football games with the volume turned way down. Ordered too much food, cooked too little. Laughed out loud at Buzzfeed articles and heard the sudden sound crest and fade in the empty bedroom. Listened to podcasts at full volume because he could, frowned and made faces at himself in the mirror and wondered if he should trim his beard of get rid of it completely. Talked loudly on the phone with his sister, his mother, Meemee, his friends from before. Walked from room to room without feeling the fond gaze of another human being.  
  
Sam Wilson didn’t need them. He knew this now, for sure.  
  
He _wanted _them. He didn’t _need_ sustenance besides water and a nutritional slurry. What made him feel alive was good wine, the tang of orange juice on his tongue, the earthy flavour of mushrooms fried in butter. That was the depth of his want for them. He wanted them not because they were his life, but because they made his life _better_.  


* * *

  
The fridge kicked on, but that didn't wake Sam. This time, it was Steve’s botched attempt at slipping out of the bed without waking him.  
  
“_Sorry_,” Steve whispered. Sam yawned widely and sat up a little more, mumbling _Whuh?_  
“I think Buck’s home,” Steve added.  
  
Sam smiled sleepily and held out his hand, silently asking for help swinging out of bed. Steve did one better, pulling him into a tight embrace and breathing in his warm smell. Things weren’t perfect; Steve still wasn’t ready to talk about his solo mission, and Sam still needed reassurance that Steve would be there for him and Bucky in the future. But it’d felt so fucking good to see his boots lined up neatly next to Sam’s by the front door, and to find his socks mixed in with Sam’s laundry. The only thing Steve was good at making in the kitchen was coffee, and Sam frankly luxuriated in not having to make it himself in the mornings anymore. It _worked._ All it needed was Bucky to come back to the fold.  
  
Finally, Sam pulled away from the hug just enough to pinch Steve’s hip playfully and pull them towards the front entrance. He could hear Bucky swearing softly as the key jangled in the lock for what seemed an unusually long time.  
  
Sam crept up to the door and pressed his mouth to it.  
“You know we changed the locks, right?” he said loudly. The keys abruptly stopped jangling on the other side of the door.  
  
“Why the _fuck_ wouldja do that?” Bucky asked, sounding completely exhausted. Sam shrugged although Bucky couldn’t see it, and Steve joined him by the door.  
  
“Security protocols, Buck. They were _your_ idea. Monthly lock change.”  
  
“Fuck protocol. I’m tired, just open the door, willya?”  
  
“What’s the password?” Sam asked. He raised his eyebrows at Steve before mouthing _Play along._  
  
“The password is ‘If you don’t let me in, I’m going to fall asleep in the road and probably get run over, and that’s on you’.”  
  
Steve gave Sam a very dry look. “I just think it’s unfair that you two call _me_ dramatic, when he’s the one that acts like this_._”  
  
Bucky had bags under his eyes, unkempt hair and a scruffy beard that probably served him well in keeping people away from him. All of that was moot when he saw Sam and Steve, though. He practically _lit up_; his smile was tired but genuine and he kept staring at Sam and then Steve like he’d never get enough of looking at them.  
  
“Barnes,” Sam said at last, soft and fond.  
  
“It’s over,” Bucky said, looking between the two of them. No more rogue Winter Soldiers. They could rest – if only until the Avengers pulled them back in somehow.  
  
Steve was like a balloon deflating (sans the hysterical noise), the way his shoulders relaxed immediately. Sam had closed his eyes and was just… smiling.  
  
It was over. At last.  
  
“I’m _starving_,” Bucky admitted after allowing a few moments of quiet contemplation.  


* * *

  
“Sam.”  
  
“Mmmnngh. Nnngh?”  
  
“You awake?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh. Are you sure? Not even a little?”  
  
Sam sighed and opened an eye. Steve was propped up on one elbow, seeming far too awake for this time of the night.  
“What is it, baby? Everything okay?”  
  
“Happy birthday, Sam.”  
  
“What.”  
  
“It’s after midnight. It’s the 23rd, right? So, happy birthday!”  
  
“Oh my god. If you weren’t so damn cute, I’d lock you out on the balcony for waking me up.”  
  
“Well…” Steve trailed off with a smirk that Sam knew all too well. “I was hoping we could give you your _gift._”  
  
“What, now?”  
  
“If you want, yeah.”  
  
Sam turned his head slightly and was unsurprised to see that Bucky was awake too. He finally gave up on sleep for now and sat up, glancing between the two of them.  
“You, uh… both?”  
  
“Whatever you want, Sam. It’s your day,” Bucky murmured. Sam felt a lot more awake, suddenly. _Whatever I want._  
  
Steve leaned into his space, his bare skin warm against Sam’s in the cool bedroom air. He slowly placed his hand on Sam’s side, sliding his fingers around to one of the dimples above Sam’s ass–  
  
And pulled a folded page out from under Sam’s pillow.  
  
“What.” Sam’s voice was flat. Much like the paper Steve was holding out to him.  
  
“It’s a voucher for, whatsit. Hawking. Falconry? Yeah, the second one.” Bucky sounded bemused, but he was watching Sam’s face for a reaction.  
  
Sam barely stopped himself from grabbing the page from Steve’s hands. “Wait, _really?_”  
  
“We knew you wanted to learn how since you were a kid,” Steve said, a little bashful. “We thought this could be something for you to do for yourself.” Sam was still looking at the paper like a kid who actually got the puppy they’d wanted for Christmas.  
  
“Do you like it?” Bucky asked, unable to hold it in any more. Sam _beamed_ and actually bounced slightly, his eyes glinting with excitement.  
  
“Do I _like_ it? Are you for real– the only reason I’m not drivin’ over there _right now_ is because it’s after midnight and they’re probably closed!”  
  
Sam carefully folded the paper and leaned across Steve to place it on the wobbly little laptop desk that was serving as a bedside table for now. Then, he all but yanked Steve into a kiss that left him literally breathless before turning and peppering Bucky’s face and shoulders with kisses, leaving him blushing red. Steve pulled at Sam’s arm, urging him back for a slower, deeper kiss – and Bucky sat up fully, moving so that he was bracketing Sam in from behind, gently resting just the very tips of his fingers against Sam’s neck and hearing his soft moan muffled by Steve’s lips – and Steve watched hungrily as Bucky took an agonizingly long time to slide Sam’s sweatpants off – and Sam was all sensation and yearning and love, and love, and love.  


* * *

  
_Sam♡ [17:48] 0923_A282J.mp4_  
  
The man in the short video is undoubtedly handsome, even though he is squinting in the bright sunlight. There’s no sound in the video, but he laughs as a large hawk, perched on the heavy leather gauntlet protecting the man’s arm, flaps its wings awkwardly while trying to find its balance.  


_Sam♡ [17:49] HIS NAME IS REDWING_ _  
_ _Sam♡ [17:49] CAN WE KEEP HIM_


End file.
